If only I could write.

     I have dozens of unwritten blog posts in my head. They appear to be trapped there, unable to escape. The silent string of narrative unfurls in my head throughout the day, but I can't really talk about it, let alone write about it. On occasion, my head stops spinning and goes relatively blank; then I find myself able to sit and stare into space for a few minutes, thinking of nothing but the sounds around me.

     If I could write, I might write about Steve's birthday - our first dinner party! Thanks to the friends and neighbors who brought the cake and the rice and the spring rolls and the bowls and the chairs and the tables, we managed to have 20 people over for dinner and cake. Steve and I agreed that there wasn't much of a better way to celebrate. Our friend Yeum was so excited by his first birthday party invitation ever that he showed up early with gel in his hair, ready to help set up. All the Khmers indulged in their favorite birthday activity: smearing frosting on other people's faces. Adults and kids alike wore glow-in-the-dark bracelets and played with balloons.

     I could write about the bizarre adventure of having hired a housekeeper - how we feel so weird and guilty about it, yet somehow we console ourselves with the thought that supporting the local economy and giving a woman a bit of earning power offsets all the weirdness. I could write about how we've had to introduce the concept of different cleaning supplies for different purposes - and gently redirect Chanla when furniture polish is being sprayed on the windows. I could write about how this lovely young woman comes once a week and stays hours longer than we agreed upon (until I forcibly wrestle the mop from her hands and tell she MUST go home now!) and brings her adorable 4-year-old daughter who wreaks havoc throughout the house.

Chanla's daughter Srey Nean, after tearing the house apart

     I could write about my job - hell, I could write quite a few posts about my job. I could tell you about the scarcity of resources and the children with swollen bellies, the challenges of constant staff changes and of using 22-year-old Khmer boys as translators for a patient population of primarily women and children, the incredibly draining challenge of figuring out my role and how the organization works, and the dawning realization that NGOs in Cambodia can be just as dysfunctional as organizations back home, and probably more so.

     I could write about the complex relationship between Jaz and her ex-boyfriend Sovann and our family in general. He's practically living here in our extra room, calling us mum and dad, and occasionally having long talks with me in the evening. He provides yet another glimpse into some aspects of Khmer culture, and proves that I still have a special place in my heart for emotionally dysfunctional young men.

Interesting body language

     I could write about my Sunday adventure, when I went to Battambang with our friend Rethy and spent the day with his mother and eight of his siblings and their respective wives and children, the vast majority of whom do not speak English. The two littlest babies never got over their stranger anxiety and cried every time I accidentally made eye contact with them. We went to the pagoda for a ceremony, where I was the only foreigner and was whisked from place to place to participate in various rituals. The beer began flowing by 10:30 am, and after a few of those, I took a lovely nap in the hammock surrounded by the pleasant sound of a family of 30 people laughing, talking, eating and drinking.  

The monk with the dragon tattoo

     I could write about the packs of dogs in our neighborhood and the fascinating relationships they appear to have with each other - though they appear to have no real relationships with humans. Dogs and cats here never approach for any kind of human attention; they eye you warily or ignore you completely, but rarely allow any contact. I feel like Jane Goodall sometimes, trying to observe their comings and goings and make sense out of their complex social behavior.

     I could write about the strange, strange state of mind I find myself in as I question everything. Why are we here? If I came here to "help," what does that really mean? What do I want to give and receive? How does one create meaningful relationships with people in the absence of shared language and culture? What are my expectations? Why do I feel as though I'm on a ship tossing in a storm and I can't keep my balance?

     I think I once said that part of what I love about being here is that I’m not expected to be the one with all the answers anymore; I’m allowed to be the one with all the questions. I can assure you that I have no shortage of questions, and it's not always so comfortable. It's an amazing opportunity for introspection, if you like that sort of thing, which I sometimes do, but I'm frustrated by my inability to articulate the inner processes that are taking up so much of my mental energy. 

     So I could write more about all of those things, but I'm sure none of it is as interesting to you as it is to me, so I'll spare you the details.

     (By the way, I continue to savor every email or contact from home, so don't be shy about writing. Thanks to our Skype number, we've had some phone calls with my parents and the kids, which has been great. We're looking forward to visits from fellow Vermonters in December and February, and would like to remind everyone that the invitation to come visit is open to all!)