The Moments of Quiet…

At our first meeting in Washington D.C., our program manager asked each of us to fill out a sheet about our expectations. It was meant to be a bonding exercise. I remember trying to fight back the panic as I was sitting in the Breakfast Room of that Holiday Inn and looked around thinking, “Here we go. Here’s to a year in Africa. Here’s to a year in a country, let alone a continent, I’ve never visited before, and here’s to diving into a job I’ve never done.” On our sheets, we were asked about our goals and fears for the year, the latter being easiest to answer. I was terrified of that first moment when all the hustle and bustle of orientation, moving, and meeting new people quieted down, and I would be left alone in my room. More than the exotic diseases or the teaching teenagers, the idea of that first moment of quiet made me feel sick.

Perhaps a self-fulfilling prophesy, I had that moment of panic when I was left alone in the guesthouse my first day at my placement. I’ve also had similar moments of panic since; moments when the many to-do’s and must-do’s are set aside and I’m reminded of the sheer ridiculousness of the tasks before me. There’s been moments of panic-causing quiet right after I hang up the phone with someone from home, and there’s been moments of panic-causing quiet when I come back from Kigali after a weekend with friends. “You’re here… alone.” I’d hear. “Now what are you going to do?”

I’ve always loved the quotation from Adlai Stevenson that “in quiet places, reason abounds.” Yet I’ve found that for much of my time in Rwanda, fear usually fights reason in my quiet moments, and fear usually wins. I won’t say that I’m ashamed or regretful of this, simply because each feeling I’ve had on this adventure I’ve wanted to treat as completely legitimate, no matter how silly it seems in retrospect. (It’s been my belief each feeling has been a steppingstone to something else, something more important, and some just take longer to understand than others.) It’s only now, though, ten months in that I recognize what a waste that fear could be.

Coming back into my room this afternoon, I found I had a different moment of quiet. After eating lunch with my neighbors, I found that in the quiet of my room I could hear the laughter of the six-year-old next door. Bits of Radio Musanze drifted through my curtains as our houseboy carried his Walkman out to wash dishes.  Birds outside flew back and forth across the yard and men walking home from Mass were speaking in Kinyarwanda. It was comforting and it felt like home.

I’m going to have pictures and souvenirs and letters from my time in Rwanda, but I won’t have these moments of quiet again, not unless I return. In the past ten months, no matter how brave I was trying to be, my moments of quiet have been filled with the voice in my head asking, “What are you doing here? Are you sure you should be here? Do you really know how to do these things? Wouldn’t you rather be doing something else?” My moments of quiet really have been moments of tumult, moments in which I was anticipating what was to come or missing what had been. What a waste, I realize now, what a total waste.

With less than thirty days to go before my year at school ends, my goal now is to enjoy these moments of quiet, to savor them and to save them. They’re the closest thing to ‘living in the moment’ I know how to appreciate, and they’re things I won’t be able to get back when they’re gone. It’s taken me ten long months, but the things that were my biggest fear when I left home, are now the some of the things I appreciate most, and perhaps my greatest gift. And I hope to enjoy them to the fullest.

Here’s to finding something beautiful in something you fear.

Much love,
jen