Sylvia's Journal

It is wonderful to be home again. Spring is around the corner, not like in DC or Holland where everything is in full bloom, not like Kabul where bushes and trees already have small leaves. As Axel wrote me, the grass is thinking ‘green’ and the trees are thinking ‘buds’ and there is that special smell in the air.

The day was on and off rainy, with in between warm weather that made people wear flipflops. I bicycled into town to join Axel at the annual chowder competition. About 8 area restaurants compete for the ‘best chowder’ title, with an extra category for chile. Axel and I have a different taste: I go for creamy and he goes for fishy.

It was a joyful community event, with all ages trying out the various chowders and chitchatting with each other, debating which chowder to vote for. The contrast with Kabul-under-siege was huge. Coming back from that place I realize how lucky we are to be able to have such community events together, in peace. I don’t think many of the people in this small town realize what we have and how precious it is.

In the afternoon I sorted out my travel stuff, completed various reports and got ready for my next two weeks of virtual facilitation while scanning what else is on my plate. Not too far on the horizon is my trip to Ethiopia. I want to take Axel along for a Holland break on the way in and out; that too requires some planning that cannot be postponed.

The evening was reserved for a quiet 28th anniversary celebration with Axel cooking fish over the fire in the fireplace, and a love note with lobster earrings. Halfway through the meal I gave up keeping my eyes open and went off to bed. It was another night full of Fellini-esque dreams. I woke up several times during the night and scribbled the most vivid scenes on small post-it notes next to my bed.

When I read the notes in the morning they made little sense. There was something about a roll-on suitcase with a wad of wool twisted around one of the wheels so the roll-on didn’t roll on anymore. Also a large gathering of people speaking Romance languages, but, as I wrote, “you don’t need to talk the language to communicate, you can make it up.” And finally something about a long train ride, during which we got blankets. When the train split in the south we were allowed to keep the blankets because of a court case.

There is more, nonsensical phrases; some I cannot decipher or understand. I wonder if some of it has to do with the book The Sewing Circles of Herat that I started reading in Kabul; it is a book that is full of stories about the brutality that men have inflicted on their fellow men (and women and children) and that has ravaged Afghanistan for decades. It makes for uncomfortable reading and even more uncomfortable sleeping. It is about a world that is light years away from peaceful and pictoresque Manchester by the Sea.