Sylvia's Journal

Axel’s loving care, Sita’s herbal concoctions (mullein, ginger, elderberry) and Tessa’s sick tea recipe (lemon, ginger, apple cider, garlic and cayenne), nursed me back to health. I felt good enough for an early morning swim, twice, but that backfired (or something else did) and triggered a bad cold. I was a very unpleasant house mate, coughing my brains out and spitting gunk out of my lungs but the fever was gone. I was grateful for working at a place where it is encouraged to stay at home when sick and discouraged to return prematurely, with plenty of sick leave available to recover at my body’s own pace.

On Sunday we gathered at the house of friends to say farewell to a tree that was filled with memories, insects, furry animals, and viral and/or fungal agents slowly contributing to its demise. It also stood in the way of a solar panel project and thus had to go. There was poetry and storytelling, there was a photo display from long ago, and much touching of the tree as if saying goodbye to a friend on her deathbed.

The next day we walked by the house and there was no trace of the tree – every bit of it was gone. Now the solar panels could march in and take their place on the roof, unimpeded by an old sick tree.

We arrived back in the US on a blue sky day – it is always nice to arrive like that. We went for a long walk to stretch our legs. Little did I know that the flu virus had already nestled inside me. On Thursday I was a bit listless and tired, which I chalked up to jetlag, on Friday I started to feel rotten and on Saturday and Sunday I was sick as a dog with a fever, coughing fits, a headache and all the symptoms that have been listed for this year’s flu season.

I thought I had escaped the virus, thinking because I had had the flu vaccine I would be spared. But no such luck. Axel also didn’t feel so great on Friday night but an 11 hour sleep was all that it took. He was able right away to dive into town affairs by attending various meetings about the new elementary school, and then watching ‘the game’ which apparently the New England team lost – a big deal here, though not so much for me.

Sita and Tessa are cheering me on via Facetime and texts, plying me with all sorts of home remedies, such as a hot lemon brew with ginger, cayenne and garlic, elderberry/flower concoctions, mullein and what not. I am drinking all day long, these and other concoctions, believing in both modern and traditional approaches. I’d like to think I am bit better, though the thermometer still registers a fever.

I am starting to have more energy so I am able to catch up on reading materials that have piled up next to my desk, on my night table and in our living room, but not enough to start a knitting project quite yet.

It has been a month since we returned from New Orleans. I have only thought about my journal, not written. I was reminded of that by a friend this morning. I now will leap over an entire month, skimming the peaks of great experiences, missing the valleys.

Christmas came and went, and once again I vowed to be out of the country or at least out of Massachusetts for the entire month of December in 2018. I have set my eyes on South East Asia. I am going to put aside some money every month so that we can enjoy our month outside the US, ideally in a place that is warmer. It is hard to escape Christmas around the world; even in Afghanistan Santa was omnipresent, but as our New Orleans experience showed us, not being ‘at home’ makes Christmas palatable.

January has come in with a vengeance, the coldest weather I can remember. We were lucky that none of the storms knocked out our electricity and so we stayed warm and comfortable. We did go skiing one weekend, at our favorite NH cross-country ski area in Jackson, staying at the lovely Thorn Hill Inn, one of those selfish Christmas presents we give to each other. It was bitter cold but we have all the right clothes now.

It was the first time in one or two years we tried skiing again and I was a little worried about the problematic left ankle and Axel about circulation. I can no longer do the skate skiing that reminded me of the ice skating in Holland of many decades ago. And so I had to change skies. I tried out some demos and am now set up with a pair that puts Axel and me on roughly the same rhythm and speed. We skied a little on day one, to get used to the exercise, and then more the second day. It was wonderful to be out in nature for so many hours and be active. We vowed we will do more of it in February and have secured a place to stay with friends, further west in New Hampshire.

Sita gave me an introduction to glassworks for Christmas. yesterday was my class. I learned how to make beads and now have a better understanding how some of my African beads are made. I did not see the final products, don’t even remember how many I made, because the completed beads went straight into the kiln for drying, even before the colors emerged from the cooling glass. It was a lot of fun. I decided I want to go back an take another class and learn how to make marbles.

And now we are keeping our fingers crossed that the flu virus, which wrestled Sita and her family down, did not come visit us with them this weekend.  Saffi threw up several times during the night and so is not out of the woods while her mom and dad are still recovering. We don’t want to be the ones that take the virus across the Atlantic when we leave for a week of Holland on Wednesday. So far we have weathered the onslaught – hopefully the flu shots gave us at least some protection.

One comes to New Orleans for the trio of food, drinks and music; this is not usually the kind of vacation I take.  The food part of the trio is always there, the drinks less (I generally don’t do cocktails) and we rarely go out to listen to music back home or on vacation. But here I am getting into this wonderful combination of the three: we eat very well, we try out all sorts of interesting cocktails and we listen to music.

Of course there is music everywhere: on the streets, in restaurants, in historic settings and in clubs or dance halls. We have found our favorite place, Snug Harbor, which is indeed a snug little place with small chairs and tiny round tables and a small stage.

After a fabulous show earlier this week at Snug Harbor of Mahmoud Chouki, we returned to see one member of the Marsalis Family (Delfeayo) with his big band on the tiny stage. It was a most playful and enjoyable show of brass band artistry.

Compared with the soulless and uninspired performance at Preservation Hall (a tourist attraction), this was how music should be played – to the enjoyment of players and listener alike. At the end three high school students from Little Rock were invited onto the stage to join the band and show off their talents with their baritone sax, alto sax and trombone. You could see that this was a rather nerve-wrecking experience for them – they could not yet be playful like the established players.

Delfeayo  and the members of his band showed me how they were mentoring the next generation of great jazz musicians – talking to them with their eyes as jazz players do, and encouraging them to stand up and play their solos. I was very impressed, these kids are talented. I imagined them being big fish in their Little Rock high school, going to swim in the big pond with the real big fish.

There was much joking about the boys’ hometown (‘country boys’) and the clothes they wore (sneakers, one with a hat and dreadlocks and T-shirts).  The band members all wore coats and most of them ties as well.  Still, you could tell there was also great respect. Later one of the players told us that this is now what he lives for – passing the baton and grooming the next generation of great jazz players.

The first snow has just started to fall, on the wintry December 10 day. I was just in time planting 20 tiny Winter Aconaite (Eranthis) bulbs. They look like nothing, little shriveled up dark things that blend in with the debris from frantic squirrel activity over the last few months. As I was digging small holes in different parts of the yard I always found nuts from this or that tree that had already claimed the space. It is rather amazing how the squirrels remember where they put stuff. We would call that smarts, but I am not sure what it means for animals.

I am listening to a book about cephalopods, among them octopus, giant squid and tiny squid. It is a philosophical treatise about consciousness and what the amazing behavior of cephalopods teaches us about consciousness. As with most books I am reading or listening to these days, it is about the brain. But the brain and nervous system of the octopus is, I learn, not in the head but all over the body. In my coaching course the word ‘embodiment’ is often used and I am trying to figure out what that means for us humans – but for the octopus it is clear. The body and brain are one. And maybe we are like that too, as there are neurons (some 500 million) in our gut and (less) in our heart. And neural activity takes of course also place in our small toe.

At work things are quiet – which is always true just before the holidays – but I also have little project work to do and charge much time to overhead. This I don’t like, and I am sure my superiors don’t either, since I am relatively costly. I am using the time for self-care related to my arthritic ankle: cupping, a massage technique that separates the fibers in my traumatized ankle with all its scar tissue, massages and physical therapy. On Fridays this can take up half a day.

I also use my down time to read up on professional literature that I have put aside. As always I am amazed about the knowledge and experience that is constantly being accumulated – but I am also heartened that by the fact that the so-called soft stuff of development is now being acknowledged as important (above and beyond what is usually referred to as ‘technical skills’). I even saw the word ‘co-create’ surface here and there. Now I am in my element – it’s time for me to write about how one can do this. I have some ideas.

On Sunday I passed from 65 to 66. I told Axel we should have taken a ride on Route 66 but it is a bit far from here. Instead he took me on a surprise birthday trip to Portland (Maine) where he had created a feast that went from fabulous lunch to fabulous dinner to fabulous hotel to fabulous breakfast to fabulous lunch before we headed home via Tessa and Steve.

They whipped up a fresh pasta meal for us with leftover sauces from their annual friends dinner where some 18 people come together to enjoy each other and great food. It’s a wonderful ritual that reminds me a bit of our periodic taco nights when we lived in Georgetown (MA) and the guys vied with each other for who could eat the hottest taco – sweat drops running down their foreheads as they pushed beyond limits. Was it fun? For us not engaged in this contest it was great fun to watch the men in their self-imposed suffering.

Back in July I started an experiment related to an auto-immune disease called Hashimoto’s that I inherited from my mother. The disease is common among light skinned and blond haired women of European descent. Mothers pass it on. It was diagnosed rather late in life and rather surprised – I had never heard of the disease and had none of the associated symptoms. I didn’t notice any difference before and after the diagnosis was made and after taking the pills to up the performance of my thyroid.

Tessa turned me on to some books written by a pharmacist who also had the disease and made the relief of her and others’ severe symptoms her life’s work. I learned that there are some foods that exacerbated her symptoms. My goal was not to alleviate symptoms, since I had none, but rather to get off the medication. I started a four-month experiment, first by removing gluten from my diet – gluten is a known inflammatory agent.  When tests were done after three months there was no difference from a year earlier – some values had gone up a bit and some down. So much for the gluten, though it has been nice to support Tessa for whom gluten is turning out to be really a bad thing.

Then I started another experiment, with the doctor’s consent, to stop taking the thyroid medicine altogether. Again, I noticed no difference. But when my bloodwork results came in today both my primary physician and endocrinologist told me to immediately get back on those pills; the values were wildly out of range, in the wrong direction.  That ended the four month experiment and I am back where I started.

Now I am starting a new experiment, also to get off medication, this time off the statin I am taking for high cholesterol. With about 17 pounds lost and on a daily exercise regime I am wondering whether I still need the medication. With the doctor’s consent I pushed the pill bottle to the back of the shelf, until early February when bloodwork will tell me whether I can continue without or need to get back.

The last experiment is to get off the Neurontin for my ankle zings and prickles. I have started a treatment of cupping – the creation of space in the mass of scar tissue in my left ankle – a dense mass that my overexcited foot nerves can’t seem to penetrate. The first treatment was encouraging – increased mobility and range of motion, less pain.

I arrived home on a near perfect Indian summer day, but the swimming days were over. This left as the only option the joining of a fitness club to keep up the swimming that had so become a part of my daily routine. I joined the Manchester Athletic Club. Axel is already a member but doesn’t use it much, preferring yoga at the gentler local Yoga studio – no bulky sweating men or women there.

As part of the membership orientation one gets a fully evaluation by a fitness professional. It was fun and very interesting. I had earlier embarked on a significant lifestyle change which I was able to maintain during my travels in West Africa: more exercise, more walking (no elevator use wherever there are elevators) and eating only what I need rather than what I want – at least when in hotels where breakfast buffets were probably responsible for my average weight gain of 5 pounds per trip.

I experienced what people who are exercising regularly have always told me: at first it is a bit of a chore – shall I ride my stationary bike at home or do some I find more enjoyable. Now that has changed – I look forward to the routines and miss it when I cannot.

In less than two weeks I will fly out again. The suitcase remained open and ready – I will be going back to West Africa for my last work trip this year.

Système D stands for débrouillard. There is a long tradition in Africa of people making do with what they have. People have forever been making utilitarian goods out of things we usually discard such as tin cans, rubber tires, CDs and more.

Yet at the same time there is a persistent sense of hopelessness, victim hood and low confidence in the ability of the continent to pull itself out of the morass of poverty, illness and strife.

I see light points everywhere but they don’t seem to add up. There are people I know or have heard of who have been able to harness the innate talent at ingenuity.

My ICRC colleague A. in Bamako changed the outlook and attitude of the rehab center’s welder. He used to sit under a tree waiting for someone to bring him something to weld. When A. Told him “you can make a wheelchair” the welder rolled his eyes. But when A. showed up with a plan and materials he learned how to make a wheelchair. Since then he has made lots of frames. The director of the Centre was so proud of him that he took me over and they posed for a picture. The primitive storage room behind him was full of shiny frames. The director promised he would give him a proper workshop. Now it is a slab of concrete with a corrugated iron roof. No walls, looking more like an oil change station than a manufacturing workshop.

The possibilities are endless but it seems there always needs to be someone else from outside the system who is not paralyzed by the constraints. So too was the man who asked the artisanal shoe and slipper maker, sitting outside the museum on the sidewalk whether he would be interested in learning how to make orthopedic shoes. The shoemaker himself had a disability and could not walk. He said yes and rest is history. He is the only orthopedic shoemaker in the country and now training a young man to take over when he retired in a few years.