A few weeks ago I started a new blog. 

theres so much i miss about our small house in sofala county. i miss the quiet and the noise, the silent, swallowing black when the electricity goes and the happy explosion of neighborhood cheer when it returns.

weeks ago, we celebrated the fourth of july with stripes and chocolate shakes in a portuguese restaurant named 'clube nautico'. afterwards, we walked on the beach and talked about the importance of travel, of absorbing new ideas and experiencing both the intriguing differences and unifying similarities of people throughout the world.

silva & friends, playing in front of our small white house. rosa hung the laundry and i loaded film, hoping to capture the feeling of the moment, the delicious happy simplicity of the afternoon.

“If while washing the dishes, we think only of the cup of tea that awaits us, thus hurrying to get the dishes out of the way as if they were a nuisance, then we are not ‘washing the dishes to wash the dishes.’ What’s more, we are not alive during the time we are washing to dishes. In fact we are completely incapable of realizing the miracle of life while standing at the sink. If we can’t wash the dishes, chances are we won’t be able to drink our tea either. While drinking the cup of tea, we will only be thinking of other things, barely aware of the cup in our hands. Thus we are sucked away into the future —and we incapable of actually living one minute of life.”

The Miracle of Mindfulness: A Manuel on Meditation
Thich Nhat Hanh

 

 

rio savanne, sofala county, mozambique

the market, a maze of wooden posts secured together with reed ties and old shoelaces. the air is thick with the smell of deep-fried dough, rotting garbage, citrus and alcohol. women sit on mats and sell peanuts, dried fish, bananas, avocados, pumpkins, bread. their children cry or play nearby, returning every few minutes to drink from someone's breast or eat a tangerine. men linger in groups and drink colorless liquor from plastic pouches. some sell assorted silverware or american films, another sits behind an ancient sewing machine surrounded by scraps of fading fabric. 'amiga, amiga!', a woman setting tomatoes and garlic calls across a narrow, crowded path. i smile and call back, 'amanha!'.

mozambique is happy and alive -- a breathing, sweating, dancing land of color and sound. in the morning before trenton is awake, i lay under our blue mosquito net and listen to trains, dogs, a muffled radio from beyond the walls of ‘young africa’. children play loudly and the air is still cool, carrying the familiar smell of smoke and wet ground. i pray and thank God for a new day, for our lives and the blessing of being together, of being in a place so filled with love.

abóbora - pumpkin

sopa da abóbora - pumpkin soup

'I can never read all the books I want; I can never be all the people I want and live all the lives I want. I can never train myself in all the skills I want. And why do I want? I want to live and feel all the shades, tones and variations of mental and physical experience possible in life. And I am horribly limited.'

Sylvia

COLOR

outside the ‘young africa’ gate, i sit on a tire with a dozen neighborhood children. rita, the three year old who greets us each morning when we buy bread and bejia, settles into my lap and offers me a battered tangerine, warm from her small fists. i accept, peel the fruit and hand her half, happy with the afternoon sun, good company and smell of citrus on my fingers.

i feel so at home, so myself.

water damaged film from the falls -- the last photos from my canon AE-1, a good friend and teacher for the past two years.

traveling across the zambian country, we approached a small marketplace — a collection of vegetables, woven baskets and livestock. men gathered in shade and children ran here and there, towing kites made of wire and plastic shopping bags. a woman — tall, strong, slender — walked happy through the commerce with a large crate atop her head, filled with flowers in every color.