Days for Yourself

Elisabeth Mulroy is a Long Term volunteer who left in August 2013 for Kenya where she is volunteering for a year on a Teaching Quest. She has a passion for photography and music, two things which you will find throughout her recollection of events over the past couple months which she details in her blog. How can you recall these things? Visit her personal blog and read on to glimpse a day for yourself.

It’s important to have days for yourself once in a while. I learned that from my mother, who I’ve always admired for her radiant warmth and calm demeanor. I think her sense of relaxation and calm comes from the fact that once in a while, in the midst of all the craziness, she will plop her ass down with a cup of coffee and a good book, and despite all the protestations from the people who want to spend time with her, and despite her long list of to-dos, she will have a quiet day to herself. It’s like therapy, I think, just less expensive. Time to reflect, to think, to write, to pray, whatever it is you gotta do. It’s important to give yourself time for that, or else the go-go-go pace of life will fill you up like a bottle until you overflow.

Today, I took a day for myself. On days for myself, I like to embark on solo adventures. To explore, to discover, and then to sit somewhere beautiful and quiet and yield myself to art.

I packed my worn leather knapsack with all the essentials: Camera, blanket, sketchpad, ukulele, song journal, notebook, pencils, erasers, a Jack Reacher thriller and a book by Gandhi, a candle and beads and string (for shambala making) and a knife (always good to have one), and set out to conquer the day. On my way, I also picked up bottle of water, a mango, and three bananas, for a total of 80 shillings, 94 cents.  I didn’t know where I was going beyond a general “somewhere in that direction”, and I didn’t know what to expect. Rule number one, always be prepared. Not only when you’re an adventurer, but when you’re an artist. The worst thing to happen as an artist is to be seized by sudden inspiration, only to have no means of documenting it. Hence, I’m always prepared.

I was headed to go explore a place I pass on my daily trek to work, in Kibagare. At one point, I cross a stone bridge that overlooks a beautiful scene: a shallow canyon covered in cornstalks and tropical trees, a bubbling stream, a dusty red path snaking discretely through it all. Since the first time I saw it, that path has sorely tempted me. It winds between the cornstalks, hardly visible, crossing little ponds and streams here and there, dipping and rising with the slope, branching off in little dead ends, and finally disappearing off into a shady forest path in the distance.

Irresistible.

After a moment of hesitation about the guy washing his clothes in the stream a little ways ahead (you gotta be careful about stuff like that in Kenya), I stepped off the main road and onto the path. I made my way through the cornfield path, hopping across boulder-laden streams and pausing to watch birds flutter out suddenly of the plants around me. I made my eventual way to the shady tree path and found it to run alongside a long, tall stone wall. I guessed it enclosed a gated neighborhood or something, despite the fact that it wasn’t even a half a kilometer away from the Kibagare slums. In some parts of Nairobi, the rich and the poor live in stark contrast right alongside each other. It’s astonishing, really, to be walking past rusty iron-sheet houses, starving strays, and grubby, snot-nosed toddlers one minute, and then past mansions tucked away behind tall beautiful gates the next.

Five minutes later, I was out of the shady forest path and had observed my next two options. To my right the wall ended onto a street, and I indeed saw that it did guard a rich neighborhood. The tarmac road stretched from the end of the wall straight ahead, completely resistible and not at all tempting. I chose to go left and down, back through the cornfield. This time, however, there was no path. I clumsily traipsed on the uneven slope, wisps of dry grass whipping at my calves, forehead-high corn leaves dwarfing me like Alice in Wonderland.

After emerging from the corn rows, the slope was pretty steep. With every step, my boots sank into the crumbly red earth like chunky quicksand. I spotted a promising clump of bushes, facing away from the street, overlooking the bottom of the shallow bushy canyon. The bushes hung over the hill in an arc, creating a shady oasis from the scorching sun. There were three big boulders, patches of dry red earth, and hundreds of wildflowers. I could tell at first glance that the place had not seen humans for a while- the weeds were long all around the place, the grass was untrammeled, and the earth was caked with dead leaves fallen from the bushes.

I knew I had found what I was looking for. A diamond in the rough. A place that was mine.

I spent the better part of the next half hour clearing the dead leaves, brushing the dust off the rocks, cutting away the dry thorny branches that made it inhospitable. Then I laid out my orange blanket, found the comfiest patch of ground, peeled off my socks, and made myself at home.

The day was magic. Music was played, pictures were taken, tropical fruits were eaten, birds were listened to, thoughts were written and ideas were born.

I was completely undisturbed. The only person who came remotely my way was a man with a machete hacking away the corn stalks, but he did not go far enough down the slope to see past the rounded cavelike edges of the hedge, so I remained undiscovered. I spent fixe or six hours there in peace, relaxing, thinking, yielding myself to art.

The walk back was even more breathtaking in the late afternoon light. Thousands upon thousands of golden cornstalks, bathed in the fiery glow of the setting sun, shimmered and swayed in the breeze like dreams. Sunlight dripped down through the treetops, splashing patches of dappled fairy lights onto the red forest path. Puffs of dust kicked up under my boots, swirling in the sunbeams like smoke. My shadow stretched behind me, beckoning me to return. I rejoined the main road as the sun kissed the the horizon. My feet were sore, my hair full of twigs, and my pants very dirty.

A satisfying day, I’d say.

Follow Elisabeth on her year long Quest by keeping up with her blog. As mentioned, she’s has a passion for photography and has quite an eye for it! Take a look at her collection of pictures and scattered thought pieces.