Good Sunday afternoon to you all!
When last I wrote, I had little idea of just exactly where I had come to live. Last Saturday morning at about 10:23 in the morning, I climbed into the minibus that was to take me to Musanze - my new home for the school year. We had packed up early on, and I had already visited the Economat, the tiny convenience store at our mission, three times to say goodbye. (The Economat became my Holy Grail over the last three weeks when I went looking for a caffeine [read:soda] alternative to instant coffee. As I quickly became a regular because of their bottled Cokes and sweet potato rolls, my friends at the Economat took it upon themselves to teach me Kinyarwanda. I owe my skills in numbers to them.) But when the Master of Studies and Mistress of Discipline, titles for members of school administration in Rwanda, arrived, I was quickly reminded of the job I had actually come to do. We all said our goodbyes and I set off for the two hour drive north to Musanze.
With Stratton and Josette on either side of me in the minibus, I was made very aware of the rapidly changing Rwandan topography. Outside of Kigali, one turn suddenly takes you straight up the side of a mountain, and the rest of the ride felt as though I was riding along the mountains' peaks, only to find there are mountains above mountains.
The first thing you notice about Musanze is the volcanoes. As soon as we arrived, I was introduced to each member of the Virunga chain - the volcanic line that forms the western boarder of Rwanda and the east of the Democratic Republic of Congo. In the morning, the volcanoes are as clear as day, but by three in the afternoon when the clouds set in, I've since found it necessary to find other ways of orienting myself. The air is thinner, and in some ways clearer, up here, and it is very hard not to appreciate the beautiful surroundings every time I leave my little room.
My Headmaster, Director of Studies, and Mistress of Discipline are no less impressive than the view out my bedroom window. They each speak at least four languages and can command respect without saying a word. Josette has since become my closest friend here, and she translates word for word from Kinyarwanda the two hour long church services I attend as part of my duties at the school. (P.s. When I was asked to introduce myself last week in Mass, the priest asked me my confession in front of the congregation-Josette saved the day and whispered "just say that you are a Protestant." Fwew.)
Likewise, the brouhaha over the first "muzungu" teacher at Musanze has been pretty humbling. Although my students clamor around every time I walk onto the school grounds, I never forget that the questions they ask me are actually in their third, and sometimes fourth, language, and that despite the fact that I am a member of the faculty, I am in no way more intelligent or more capable than they. It's hard to think of activities to start when students organize and direct their own choirs, basketball teams, dance clubs, and cultural nights. If that's not enough, they get up at 5 am to run 2K together, and conduct their own 6:30 AM Wednesday worship service. When all of the students piled in to the multi-purpose room to watch the American inauguration on widescreen Tuesday, three students asked me what Obama's policy on Israel was and how he planned to restructure America's economy. (They also asked if Dianne Feinstein, white Senator from California, was Obama's wife. They breathed an audible sigh of relief when I said no, and pointed about Michelle...) Finally, outside of class the other day, one of my juniors asked, "Teacher, I have been trying to know, how is uranium enriched? I am not positive how the centrifuge works." Great.
I've had to remind myself in the past week that my purpose here is in no way diminished although my surroundings, my colleagues, and my students are so very impressive. This year is the first year that the Rwandan government has required all secondary students to learn in English, hoping that Rwanda can rise to the level of the industrial giants in Nairobi. Teachers are scrambling to find English books, and students are struggling to catch new concepts in a new language. In a country where even a used Danielle Steele paperback costs upwards of $50, children are yearning to learn and parents are eager to see their children improve upon the lives they've lived.
In addition to helping my students, I'm learning and experiencing things I've never even imagined. Last night, at the church service celebrating faiths of all sorts, I got up on stage twice to learn traditional Rwandan dance in front 750+ students. I was invited by a fellow teacher to visit his wife and newborn baby girl in the Musanze hospital. I bargained for bananas in the market, despite my meager knowledge of Kinyarwanda. And despite going through some low spots in these past five weeks, I'm living in a developing country hanging out with kids who will one day run this country. It may be very humbling living in the company of giants, but it sure is spectacular.
I hope you all are well, and can't wait to write again.
Love,
Jen
Sunday, January 25, 2009
Sunday, January 18, 2009
I Went Up to the Mountain...
In keeping with my Sunday posts, greetings from Musanze! So much has happened in the past week, it's hard to know where to begin.
Our last week of training was nothing more than emotionally and physically exhausting. Three days of teaching practicum in Kigali high schools left me confident I can handle a large classroom, but scared out of my mind that I will be teaching subjects almost as foreign to me as Kinyarwanda. At each of our schools, our students were extremely bright, proficient in English, and prepared to learn. I don't know what I was hoping for, but let's just say that I would have preferred to be the smartest person in the room. That was far from the case.
Children, and teenagers, in Rwanda on the surface seem far more responsible and capable at life skills than I ever remember being (or perhaps am today!). Our short stay at an AIDS orphanage in Butare in the south last week exemplified that fact. Knowing that 82 of the 107 orphans at the orphanage were infected with HIV, and each of them lost one or both of their parents to the disease, the day was enlightening enough. But one little girl, Olivia, latched on to my leg early on in our day of games. When it came time for the orphanage director to hand out school uniforms and supplies (all rural primary schools in Rwanda have the same bright blue uniforms which have to be purchased, so despite the fact primary education is free, school uniforms can make even primary school cost-prohibitive), Olivia took her one pencil, one pen, two notebooks, bright blue uniform, and newly adopted muzungu around to the back to try the uniform on. As I sat holding my bag and water bottle, I watched as she put the pencil and pen in her mouth, balanced the notebooks on her head, buttoned her uniform shirt and straightened the collar. Afterwards, she slipped her skirt on over the skirt she already was wearing, tucked her shirt in, and pulled up her socks. It was hard for me to imagine being 8 again without anyone to hold my pen or pencil, straighten my collar, or button my shirt. Although I had offered to hold her things, she was already one step ahead of me. When she was satisfied that her outfit fit, she took her items off and folded them neatly, as if they were the finest clothes in the world. All at age 8. All because she doesn't have anyone else to do it for her.
In a country where the only response in Kinyarwanda to "How are you?" is "I am fine, thank you," it's easy to forget with such bright and independent people that only 15 years ago, they lost close to 1 million people in civil war. Every time I get frustrated at how backwards things seem (and let me tell you, the fact that there are conveyor belts in most check-out lines and no one EVER turns them on really gets under my skin. Are they just for show!?) I have to remind myself just how far Rwanda has come. It is remarkable. Our week also included visits to two of the hundreds of genocide memorials strewn about the country. The facts and figures of 1994 proved just too much to even fathom. The memorial in Kigali is also the final resting place of over 200,000 people in mass graves and counting. Next door to the mission at which we stayed, close to 10,000 people died because the priest of that church turned in refugees to the Interahamwe. An estimated 90% of current Rwandese are experiencing after-effects from 15 years ago. And yet, pictures, stories, and even documentaries failed to impress upon me the scale and scope of such an atrocity until we visited Nyamata. More than 2,500 people were killed in this church in the rural community of Nyamata, and the memorial there is more than facts and figures. Entering the church, the clothes of those slaughtered still line the pews. No longer used as a place of worship, Nyamata is rather used as a startling reminder of just how cruel mankind can be. Shoes and sweaters still lie on the ground, blood still on the altar, and tiny holes still dot the ceiling where two grenades were thrown in to open the doors. Never in my life have I been so close to so much hate. Never in my life have I been in place that felt so dead.
We were asked to take some time outside the church to think about what it meant to us, and all I could be was angry. I couldn't cry because I couldn't even grasp the enormity of such a place. I couldn't write because I didn't know what to feel, but I felt like expounding poetically would not do the memorial justice. I realized I can't understand at all what pain this country is feeling, and that I would never know, not after reading a million books or visiting a million memorials. For a long time, I sat and thought about the woman who's job it was to sit to this monument to death, and just how many people have to do something similar so that no one can forget.
In the suffocating silence, three primary school girls let out for their first day of school came running up. Their bright blue uniforms against the white fence and cloudy sky made them all the more beautiful. Chuckling outside the memorial, intrigued by the many muzungus sitting crouched over their notebooks, the little ones provided a stark contrast to the deathly quiet inside the church walls. How lucky am I, I thought, that I can leave this place, and how tragic it is that an entire country still suffers the pain of those 100 days in 1994.
There were many other things that happened this past week - meeting other Americans at the American Ambassador's house, celebrating the end of training, packing up to leave for our placements and absolutely freaking out that we were all about to go play teacher. All of these exciting things, among others, I'll have to talk about when I have more time to use the computer. But for now, I am pleased to say I have indeed moved up to Musanze among the volcanoes and the gorillas, and I am so terribly excited to get started. Now, I feel like I have even more of a reason to work.
Our last week of training was nothing more than emotionally and physically exhausting. Three days of teaching practicum in Kigali high schools left me confident I can handle a large classroom, but scared out of my mind that I will be teaching subjects almost as foreign to me as Kinyarwanda. At each of our schools, our students were extremely bright, proficient in English, and prepared to learn. I don't know what I was hoping for, but let's just say that I would have preferred to be the smartest person in the room. That was far from the case.
Children, and teenagers, in Rwanda on the surface seem far more responsible and capable at life skills than I ever remember being (or perhaps am today!). Our short stay at an AIDS orphanage in Butare in the south last week exemplified that fact. Knowing that 82 of the 107 orphans at the orphanage were infected with HIV, and each of them lost one or both of their parents to the disease, the day was enlightening enough. But one little girl, Olivia, latched on to my leg early on in our day of games. When it came time for the orphanage director to hand out school uniforms and supplies (all rural primary schools in Rwanda have the same bright blue uniforms which have to be purchased, so despite the fact primary education is free, school uniforms can make even primary school cost-prohibitive), Olivia took her one pencil, one pen, two notebooks, bright blue uniform, and newly adopted muzungu around to the back to try the uniform on. As I sat holding my bag and water bottle, I watched as she put the pencil and pen in her mouth, balanced the notebooks on her head, buttoned her uniform shirt and straightened the collar. Afterwards, she slipped her skirt on over the skirt she already was wearing, tucked her shirt in, and pulled up her socks. It was hard for me to imagine being 8 again without anyone to hold my pen or pencil, straighten my collar, or button my shirt. Although I had offered to hold her things, she was already one step ahead of me. When she was satisfied that her outfit fit, she took her items off and folded them neatly, as if they were the finest clothes in the world. All at age 8. All because she doesn't have anyone else to do it for her.
In a country where the only response in Kinyarwanda to "How are you?" is "I am fine, thank you," it's easy to forget with such bright and independent people that only 15 years ago, they lost close to 1 million people in civil war. Every time I get frustrated at how backwards things seem (and let me tell you, the fact that there are conveyor belts in most check-out lines and no one EVER turns them on really gets under my skin. Are they just for show!?) I have to remind myself just how far Rwanda has come. It is remarkable. Our week also included visits to two of the hundreds of genocide memorials strewn about the country. The facts and figures of 1994 proved just too much to even fathom. The memorial in Kigali is also the final resting place of over 200,000 people in mass graves and counting. Next door to the mission at which we stayed, close to 10,000 people died because the priest of that church turned in refugees to the Interahamwe. An estimated 90% of current Rwandese are experiencing after-effects from 15 years ago. And yet, pictures, stories, and even documentaries failed to impress upon me the scale and scope of such an atrocity until we visited Nyamata. More than 2,500 people were killed in this church in the rural community of Nyamata, and the memorial there is more than facts and figures. Entering the church, the clothes of those slaughtered still line the pews. No longer used as a place of worship, Nyamata is rather used as a startling reminder of just how cruel mankind can be. Shoes and sweaters still lie on the ground, blood still on the altar, and tiny holes still dot the ceiling where two grenades were thrown in to open the doors. Never in my life have I been so close to so much hate. Never in my life have I been in place that felt so dead.
We were asked to take some time outside the church to think about what it meant to us, and all I could be was angry. I couldn't cry because I couldn't even grasp the enormity of such a place. I couldn't write because I didn't know what to feel, but I felt like expounding poetically would not do the memorial justice. I realized I can't understand at all what pain this country is feeling, and that I would never know, not after reading a million books or visiting a million memorials. For a long time, I sat and thought about the woman who's job it was to sit to this monument to death, and just how many people have to do something similar so that no one can forget.
In the suffocating silence, three primary school girls let out for their first day of school came running up. Their bright blue uniforms against the white fence and cloudy sky made them all the more beautiful. Chuckling outside the memorial, intrigued by the many muzungus sitting crouched over their notebooks, the little ones provided a stark contrast to the deathly quiet inside the church walls. How lucky am I, I thought, that I can leave this place, and how tragic it is that an entire country still suffers the pain of those 100 days in 1994.
There were many other things that happened this past week - meeting other Americans at the American Ambassador's house, celebrating the end of training, packing up to leave for our placements and absolutely freaking out that we were all about to go play teacher. All of these exciting things, among others, I'll have to talk about when I have more time to use the computer. But for now, I am pleased to say I have indeed moved up to Musanze among the volcanoes and the gorillas, and I am so terribly excited to get started. Now, I feel like I have even more of a reason to work.
Sunday, January 11, 2009
In Rwanda, you're never alone...
I should step back just a little to fill in some gaps. While it hasn’t been all sunshine and rainbows (I got sick for the first time on Monday; I went through about 24 hours in total swearing I made a mistake and there was no way I could live here for a year.), it already has been a better growing experience than I could have imagined. Here’s just a little of the two weeks.
In total, getting to Kigali took 24 hours. After an hour and half line to check in at Dulles, it took us nine hours to fly from Washington DC to Rome. We then stopped in Rome to change flight crew (we arrived at 1 AM), we flew 6 hours from Rome to Addis Ababa, Ethiopia. Our stay in Addis was short – we literally disembarked the plane only to walk up a long hall, go through security again, and re-board the same plane that had taken us from DC. Needless to say, the flight from Addis to Kigali was a little sparser than the one across the Atlantic. I sat next to a wonderful woman who reassured me that I had chosen the best place on earth to work. (I since actually saw her in a coffee shop near our rooms.) After a three-hour flight, we landed in Kigali, walking down the stairs and across the tarmac of Kigali International.
After throwing in 32 bags of luggage (not including the carry-ons) and 19 people into a minibus to our accommodations in a Catholic mission, what has happened since has been a bit of a blur. Our daily activities make it feel as though we’ve been here for ages and the nights run together despite the fact that we’ve had less than two weeks worth. Our training will last until January 17th, at which point our Headmasters and Headmistresses will be driving us to our schools. Despite my fears about being the only volunteer at my school, though, I was told by my plane friend that “in Rwanda, you’re never alone.”
Kigali is a beautiful, sprawling city that I have yet to really understand how it’s structured. The city is in several sections, or neighborhoods, and I’ve had a good chance to explore it’s many parts in the number of various ways my compatriots in public transport choose to take me home each night. We are very close to the city center, however, and whatever we need we generally look for first in Nakumatt, a 24-hour superstore I have the same aversion to as Wal-Mart.
While walking up the hill to Nakumatt or standing in line for a “moto” or motorcycle taxi, everyone stares. Admittedly, I do too when I see another “muzungu,” the Kinyarwanda word for “white person.” It’s what’s done, and it’s ok. Knowing it’s ok to stare from afar, however, doesn’t stop small children from wanting to walk with us as we go about town. Just yesterday, I met a new friend named Ben. He was probably about 6 or 7, barefoot and smiling, and caught up with our group when we left the American Embassy after our security briefing. He didn’t ask for money or for food, he just wanted to walk. I know very little Kinyarwanda, and in other cases my French usually suffices, but we could just barely make out our names. After about 5 minutes or so, I started to sing “Happy Birthday,” so he could sing it back to me. It turns out he knew the tune, so for the next half a mile or so, we sang “Happy Birthday dear Ben” about 15 times. It was glorious.
Singing is so common in Rwanda. At first I thought it was because we were staying in a Catholic mission, but the more I get out, the more I hear. When I think about it, for a country with such a tumultuous recent past, the singing is a way of connecting all together. It calms me when I agitated. It comforts me when I miss home.
The more I adjust, the better I feel. I know I’ll go through this again when I move, and again after my first few weeks of teaching. Understandably, it’s taken a few days, though. There are the things you must have with you at all times: toilet paper, hand sanitizer, and bug spray; the things you’re used to, but could live without: internet, ipod, and regular showers; the things you must not do: walk barefoot, drink the water, eat in public when not sitting at a restaurant; and the things you must do: push your way onto the minibuses, speak slowly and clearly, and always remember to individually say goodbye to each person you met before you leave. It’s all a part of the rhythm – the dos and don’ts, the singing, the staring, the adapting – of the life I’m building in Rwanda. And while it sure isn’t easy, it’s already totally worth it.
Can’t wait to write again. Take care and, as I’m told to tell my students, have courage :)
Jen
In total, getting to Kigali took 24 hours. After an hour and half line to check in at Dulles, it took us nine hours to fly from Washington DC to Rome. We then stopped in Rome to change flight crew (we arrived at 1 AM), we flew 6 hours from Rome to Addis Ababa, Ethiopia. Our stay in Addis was short – we literally disembarked the plane only to walk up a long hall, go through security again, and re-board the same plane that had taken us from DC. Needless to say, the flight from Addis to Kigali was a little sparser than the one across the Atlantic. I sat next to a wonderful woman who reassured me that I had chosen the best place on earth to work. (I since actually saw her in a coffee shop near our rooms.) After a three-hour flight, we landed in Kigali, walking down the stairs and across the tarmac of Kigali International.
After throwing in 32 bags of luggage (not including the carry-ons) and 19 people into a minibus to our accommodations in a Catholic mission, what has happened since has been a bit of a blur. Our daily activities make it feel as though we’ve been here for ages and the nights run together despite the fact that we’ve had less than two weeks worth. Our training will last until January 17th, at which point our Headmasters and Headmistresses will be driving us to our schools. Despite my fears about being the only volunteer at my school, though, I was told by my plane friend that “in Rwanda, you’re never alone.”
Kigali is a beautiful, sprawling city that I have yet to really understand how it’s structured. The city is in several sections, or neighborhoods, and I’ve had a good chance to explore it’s many parts in the number of various ways my compatriots in public transport choose to take me home each night. We are very close to the city center, however, and whatever we need we generally look for first in Nakumatt, a 24-hour superstore I have the same aversion to as Wal-Mart.
While walking up the hill to Nakumatt or standing in line for a “moto” or motorcycle taxi, everyone stares. Admittedly, I do too when I see another “muzungu,” the Kinyarwanda word for “white person.” It’s what’s done, and it’s ok. Knowing it’s ok to stare from afar, however, doesn’t stop small children from wanting to walk with us as we go about town. Just yesterday, I met a new friend named Ben. He was probably about 6 or 7, barefoot and smiling, and caught up with our group when we left the American Embassy after our security briefing. He didn’t ask for money or for food, he just wanted to walk. I know very little Kinyarwanda, and in other cases my French usually suffices, but we could just barely make out our names. After about 5 minutes or so, I started to sing “Happy Birthday,” so he could sing it back to me. It turns out he knew the tune, so for the next half a mile or so, we sang “Happy Birthday dear Ben” about 15 times. It was glorious.
Singing is so common in Rwanda. At first I thought it was because we were staying in a Catholic mission, but the more I get out, the more I hear. When I think about it, for a country with such a tumultuous recent past, the singing is a way of connecting all together. It calms me when I agitated. It comforts me when I miss home.
The more I adjust, the better I feel. I know I’ll go through this again when I move, and again after my first few weeks of teaching. Understandably, it’s taken a few days, though. There are the things you must have with you at all times: toilet paper, hand sanitizer, and bug spray; the things you’re used to, but could live without: internet, ipod, and regular showers; the things you must not do: walk barefoot, drink the water, eat in public when not sitting at a restaurant; and the things you must do: push your way onto the minibuses, speak slowly and clearly, and always remember to individually say goodbye to each person you met before you leave. It’s all a part of the rhythm – the dos and don’ts, the singing, the staring, the adapting – of the life I’m building in Rwanda. And while it sure isn’t easy, it’s already totally worth it.
Can’t wait to write again. Take care and, as I’m told to tell my students, have courage :)
Jen
Sunday, January 4, 2009
May this be the first of many...
Dear Family and Friends,
Welcome to Rwanda! While I have been incredibly remiss in writing on my blog, I promise life will even out a little here in the next three weeks!! Currently, though, I have made it safely to Kigali, the capital city of Rwanda, and am preparing for my year of teaching. Every minute of our day is planned, and I haven't had much time to stow away in an internet cafe (and even less patience with the wireless here!) Despite the technological difficulties, I couldn't be happier. The country is beautiful, the people are loving, and I have yet to run into my share of mosquitos. While my power converter is failing to keep my computer charged currently, I thought I would add something to start off the journey that another teacher in our group shared with me today. Emotions have been running pretty high, and with the addition of a very upset stomach this morning, this calmed and comforted me to no end. So HAPPY NEW YEAR to you all, and I will write soon.
With much love and future posts,
Jen
From "The Prophet"
A mason came forth and said, "Speak to us of Houses."
And he answered and said:
Build of your imaginings a bower in the wilderness ere you build a house within the city walls.
For even as you have home-comings in your twilight, so has the wanderer in you, the ever distant and alone.
Your house is your larger body.
It grows in the sun and sleeps in the stillness of the night; and it is not dreamless.
Does not your house dream? And dreaming, leave the city for grove or hilltop?
Would that I could gather your houses into my hand, and like a sower scatter them in forest and meadow.
Would the valleys were your streets, and the green paths your alleys, that you might seek one another through vineyards, and come with the fragrance of the earth in your garments.
But these things are not yet to be.
In their fear your forefathers gathered you too near together. And that fear shall endure a little longer. A little longer shall your city walls separate your hearths from your fields.
And tell me, people of Orphalese, what have you in these houses? And what is it you guard with fastened doors?
Have you peace, the quiet urge that reveals your power?
Have you remembrances, the glimmering arches that span the summits of the mind?
Have you beauty, that leads the heart from things fashioned of wood and stone to the holy mountain?
Tell me, have you these in your houses?
Or have you only comfort, and the lust for comfort, that stealthy thing that enters the house a guest, and becomes a host, and then a master?
Ay, and it becomes a tamer, and with hook and scourge makes puppets of your larger desires.
Though its hands are silken, its heart is of iron.
It lulls you to sleep only to stand by your bed and jeer at the dignity of the flesh.
It makes mock of your sound senses, and lays them in thistledown like fragile vessels.
Verily the lust for comfort murders the passion of the soul, and then walks grinning in the funeral.
But you, children of space, you restless in rest, you shall not be trapped nor tamed.
Your house shall be not an anchor but a mast.
It shall not be a glistening film that covers a wound, but an eyelid that guards the eye.
You shall not fold your wings that you may pass through doors, nor bend your heads that they strike not against a ceiling, nor fear to breathe lest walls should crack and fall down.
You shall not dwell in tombs made by the dead for the living.
And though of magnificence and splendour, your house shall not hold your secret nor shelter your longing.
For that which is boundless in you abides in the mansion of the sky, whose door is the morning mist, and whose windows are the songs and the silences of night.
Welcome to Rwanda! While I have been incredibly remiss in writing on my blog, I promise life will even out a little here in the next three weeks!! Currently, though, I have made it safely to Kigali, the capital city of Rwanda, and am preparing for my year of teaching. Every minute of our day is planned, and I haven't had much time to stow away in an internet cafe (and even less patience with the wireless here!) Despite the technological difficulties, I couldn't be happier. The country is beautiful, the people are loving, and I have yet to run into my share of mosquitos. While my power converter is failing to keep my computer charged currently, I thought I would add something to start off the journey that another teacher in our group shared with me today. Emotions have been running pretty high, and with the addition of a very upset stomach this morning, this calmed and comforted me to no end. So HAPPY NEW YEAR to you all, and I will write soon.
With much love and future posts,
Jen
From "The Prophet"
A mason came forth and said, "Speak to us of Houses."
And he answered and said:
Build of your imaginings a bower in the wilderness ere you build a house within the city walls.
For even as you have home-comings in your twilight, so has the wanderer in you, the ever distant and alone.
Your house is your larger body.
It grows in the sun and sleeps in the stillness of the night; and it is not dreamless.
Does not your house dream? And dreaming, leave the city for grove or hilltop?
Would that I could gather your houses into my hand, and like a sower scatter them in forest and meadow.
Would the valleys were your streets, and the green paths your alleys, that you might seek one another through vineyards, and come with the fragrance of the earth in your garments.
But these things are not yet to be.
In their fear your forefathers gathered you too near together. And that fear shall endure a little longer. A little longer shall your city walls separate your hearths from your fields.
And tell me, people of Orphalese, what have you in these houses? And what is it you guard with fastened doors?
Have you peace, the quiet urge that reveals your power?
Have you remembrances, the glimmering arches that span the summits of the mind?
Have you beauty, that leads the heart from things fashioned of wood and stone to the holy mountain?
Tell me, have you these in your houses?
Or have you only comfort, and the lust for comfort, that stealthy thing that enters the house a guest, and becomes a host, and then a master?
Ay, and it becomes a tamer, and with hook and scourge makes puppets of your larger desires.
Though its hands are silken, its heart is of iron.
It lulls you to sleep only to stand by your bed and jeer at the dignity of the flesh.
It makes mock of your sound senses, and lays them in thistledown like fragile vessels.
Verily the lust for comfort murders the passion of the soul, and then walks grinning in the funeral.
But you, children of space, you restless in rest, you shall not be trapped nor tamed.
Your house shall be not an anchor but a mast.
It shall not be a glistening film that covers a wound, but an eyelid that guards the eye.
You shall not fold your wings that you may pass through doors, nor bend your heads that they strike not against a ceiling, nor fear to breathe lest walls should crack and fall down.
You shall not dwell in tombs made by the dead for the living.
And though of magnificence and splendour, your house shall not hold your secret nor shelter your longing.
For that which is boundless in you abides in the mansion of the sky, whose door is the morning mist, and whose windows are the songs and the silences of night.
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