25 Years of Being a Global Nomad
I Say a Little Prayer
08-20-2022
Romans 8:28: And we know that all things work together for good to them that love God, to them who are the called according to his purpose.
Yesterday, nearly a year after learning that I would be moving to Ethiopia, my movers sealed the final box at my home in Washington, D.C. I have been through the process of packing and unpacking too many times to count over the past 25 years. I am always more excited than wistful in the days leading up to an international move…I guess now it’s more accurate to say that I am usually more wistful than excited – this move has been touched by a melancholy I have not felt before. It’s a deviation from the norm and it has come as a bit of a surprise. But given the beauty of this season, and the pain of the one that preceded it, it really shouldn’t be.
The spring and summer of 2022 have done really well by me, and I don’t want to let good vibes go. I have been blessed with a halcyon April - August. This era has been truly magical, light, and utterly freeing. It feels like this season of my life has been showered in pixie dust and glitter. From Mississippi to Mexico to Martha’s Vineyard, I have gone on amazing trips, and had otherworldly experiences. I saw my first nephew, Zion, join the ranks of Alpha Phi Alpha, the fraternity that generations of my uncles and cousins are members of. I watched as his brother, Isaiah, embarked on his first solo international adventure to Colombia. I spent nearly a week with my youngest nephew exploring Chicago’s culinary delights. I rode on a Harley! I have met strangers who have quickly become friends…some of whom it seems I have known forever…and will know forever. And at every turn, I have had the privilege of time, scads of time, with those I hold near and dear.
In April, after the most stressful and sad six months of my life, I got very serious, intentional, and SPECIFIC about what I hoped, wished, and prayed for. I know that some prayers go unanswered, but this year, the universe conspired in my favor! It's as though the heavens opened up and the celestial chorus sang “Get it, girl!” OutKast’s SpottieOttieDopaliscious descended from the aural sphere and took up residence in my life. My friends Rod and Charlayne renewed their marriage vows during their ten-year wedding anniversary celebration in Cabo. I was there when they met in D.C. I was there when they married in Baton Rouge. I held their firstborn daughter in her first 24 hours of life. And in Baja California Sur, along with my Spelman Sisters and Alpha Kappa Alpha Sorority, Inc. Sorors, Carrie, Ann, and Erin, I was in Mexico to celebrate this beautiful couple’s love and the love of the beloved community we are part of.
The sun has never been brighter, the boys have never been cuter, and the parties have never been more lit than they have this summer! All this goodness AND we got a new Beyonce album + Tanqueray released her book. Truly, who could ask for more? It’s all been very Romans 8:28, and the last six months have been exactly the balm that I needed following a harrowing and brutal winter and fall.
COVID hasn’t spared many of us. And for as much collective grief it has wrought, there’s also something about this disease, and all that it has taken, that feels highly personal – almost insulting. A life-altering medical diagnosis followed by months of hospitalization of my Day One. My own brush with Miss Rona, followed by months of fatigue and brain fog. Canceled graduations, and family reunions, and milestone birthdays and anniversaries. Worse, the missed first year milestones of Erika’s and Charlayne’s - two of my closest friends - pandemic babies. Watching the most banal and ordinary tasks morph into acts of horror, or heroism, and sometimes both. I have never felt more fearless than when I braved the cloud of corona to fetch groceries. The deaths and illnesses of family members and friends. Two family friends dead from COVID in ten days – followed by half a dozen more.
COVID took its portion and then life wanted some, too. Devastating medical diagnoses of family members. My maternal grandmother’s death last spring. The incomprehensible death of the beautiful and brilliant Darcy Richie this spring. The country that I love and work for coming apart at the seams and half the nation steeped in a spirit of hate and a guiding ethos to cause the most hurt and do the most harm. At a point it felt like we were all sitting ducks, waiting for our turn to either devolve or die.
Running aside Corona and then eventually outpacing her, was something lovely, sweet, and bright. Despite Corona’s grip, or perhaps in a way because of it, an incredible silver lining began to develop in my life. Corona gave me the rare and matchless gift of uninterrupted time with my parents, who are in their 70s and 80s. The net positive effect of our sustained time together has grown as the virus has ebbed. I know that with more distance and perspective, the completeness and perfection of its goodness will be revealed. I am still in it, and I am already fully aware of how transformative their love and presence have been.
In March of 2020, just after she and her sister Gloria visited our family in Taiwan, my mom and I went to New York. We went to see my dearest Brian’s StepAfrika perform “Drumfolk’ and take in a few Broadway shows, including “Ain’t Too Proud,” which was written by our family friend Dominique Morisseau. The week after, the whole world shut down and it has remained in a state of dis-ease ever since. I have spent most of the last two years in the honied embrace of my parents’ home. I knew I would do a very poor job of sheltering in place in D.C. – the lure of socializing would be stronger than the pull of protecting my health and safety. So, I headed south to their home in rural Georgia, where I have gotten into their groove. Adopted their ways and schedules. Learned about them as a full-time couple and fully committed married couple, not just as MY mom and MY dad. It’s been peaceful, and quaint, and restorative.
Before Corona knocked us down, I had lived my entire adult life (mis)guided by the notion that I am an army of one. Living abroad will do that to you. When life is unpredictable and ever-changing, you know you have to be able to depend on yourself, and I have. The idea of community – in its true integrated sense – has never seemed that relevant or frankly, important. Community for laughs and parties, and snaps and giggles, yes. Community for interdependence and sustaining life, and happiness, not so much. It’s always been nice to have family and friends but at the end of the day, I always thought I was all good, all by myself. I have been highly social but fundamentally a loner.
Life has a way of humbling us and COVID brought me to my knees. It forced me to see how little I was capable of accomplishing alone and how much I needed love, support, and encouragement from my family and community, to make it through. I had always convinced myself that I could happily live alone, anywhere, and under almost any conditions. The COVID years changed all that. I have now begun to see not just the beauty but the necessity of linked lives and shared spaces. That has been the lesson of COVID. I have forged deeper bonds with my family and my friends, and I have tried my best to do right by my people and my community. I have spent an inordinate amount of time with my cousin bestie, Shara, and her darling Gremlins aka my godsons, Taj, and Amir. That has been the luxury of COVID. During this time of so much want, hurt, and lack, I never wanted, hurt, or lacked – that wasn’t because of my own efforts, it was because of all the people who loved on me and supported me. That has been the light of COVID. A note of encouragement here, a bouquet of flowers there, a call to say, “What up, doe?” – they all mattered. These acts of kindness and love have buoyed me through this period of immense challenge and have left me feeling better off for having lived through it. That has been the legacy of COVID.
And now I am here, heading into my first COVID-era international move. Four days away from starting the next chapter of my life in Ethiopia. On the heels of a nearly perfect, sparkling, Camelot-esque six-month span. Hours away from saying my final farewells to my parents. Knowing I need to go and deeply uncertain that I want to.
In past moves, the weeks and days leading up to takeoff have been both harried and heady. Anticipation mixed with a bit of overwhelm. I have always been able to visualize my new life and delight in the adventures that I knew were sure to come. This time around, I feel only a profound sense of gratitude for what I have gained a deepening sense of dread that I am leaving everyone and everything that matters to me behind. Guided by faith and girded by love, I will board my flight to Addis Ababa on Thursday, knowing full well that the same God who has humbled me and hoisted me, as needed, will continue to carry me through. With His love, and yours, I know my future will be all good. As I prepare for what’s next, I ask that you say a little prayer for me.
☘️
Until Next Time,
Heather Joy
25 Years of Being a Global Nomad
Black Coffee, No Sugar, No Cream
08-27-2022
I arrived in Addis Ababa, Ethiopia - via a direct 14-hour flight from Washington Dulles - on the morning of Friday, August 26. The previous 48 hours had been a frenzy of coffee, breakfast, lunch, and dinner dates, tearful goodbyes, a home inspection and final deep cleaning, and a harried dash to fit my belongings into my suitcases. One of my besties had an early morning coffee with me, steps from the White House, and gave me just the upbeat, funny, and loving farewell I needed. The melancholy of the previous weeks evaporated somewhere over the Atlantic. By the time I landed at Bole International Airport, I was pooped but excited about my new life in this ancient and unfamiliar place.
I started my first full day with one of Ethiopia’s firsts: coffee. Coffee originated in Ethiopia, and legend has it that a goat herder named Kaldi discovered the energizing effects of coffee beans after some of the beasts in his flock ate the beans from a coffee plant and couldn’t calm down afterwards. Kaldi shared his observations and a handful of the beans with monks from a nearby monastery. The monks were dubious and tried to destroy the beans by tossing them into a fire. But as the beans began to roast, their intoxicating aroma captivated them and caused them to change their skeptical view. They began to make a steeped beverage from the beans and drank it daily. Coffee is called “Banu” in Amharic, Ethiopia’s official language. Word quickly spread about Banu’s buzz-inducing effects and soon enough, coffee’s popularity spread around the region and the world. Coffee has been keeping us awake and alert ever since. So, the world’s various coffee-producing regions and coffee lovers, including me, are indebted to Ethiopia for giving birth to the beloved drink.
My first cup of Ethiopian coffee involved neither goats nor monks, but rather a spartan roadside coffee stand and two young women who prepared the coffee ritual for my colleagues and me. I have been dogged by a caffeine-deprivation hangover since I arrived, because I have not been able to find my beloved Sugar Free Red Bull – trust me, I’ve been looking! Between my jetlag and getting re-acclimated to being in a high-altitude environment (Mexico City is high up, too), I was DRAGGING. I wanted the coffee experience almost as much as I needed the jolt of caffeine.
The traditional coffee ceremony is a key element Ethiopian culture – coffee isn’t drunk alone, it’s a community celebration. The coffee is prepared by women, often involves invited guests, and can last for hours. This wasn’t that but it was something lovely and special.
As we sat on tiny plastic stools, the women brought out the requisite accoutrements to prepare the coffee: a black coffee pot with a long, elegant spout, called a Jebena, Cini coffee cups – tiny tulip shaped, handle-less porcelain cups adorned with a floral motif - that hold about a quarter cup of liquid, and a Girgirta, a small bowl filled with frankincense.
Within the confines of the small stall, the heady aromas from the brewing coffee and the smoky plumes from the burning incense were powerful but not overwhelming. Traditionally Ethiopian coffee is served with aromatic incense, usually myrrh and/or frankincense. The smoke from the burning incense is believed to banish bad spirits. Frankincense is a tree resin that’s tapped from the Boswellia tree, which is native to the Horn of Africa and the Arabian peninsula. The tree’s bark is scraped, causing its resins to bleed out and harden. When the hardened resin aka “tears” is burned, it produces a pungent and unmistakable aroma – one that many years ago formed an indelible impression on my olfactory senses. My first whiff of the frankincense today immediately transported me back to my childhood. It smelled exactly like the incense used my father’s Episcopal Church in Queens, New York, where I attended church a few times during my family’s annual summer visits.
When the coffee finished brewing, one of the women poured it into our cups from on high – the spout seemed to be about a foot from the coffee cups. She didn’t waste a drop. Skills!
Our steaming cups of java were then adorned with a small sprig of medicinal herbs called Tena Adam or the Health for Adam, or “Rue” in English. We used the herbs to stir the coffee and they imparted a slightly fresh and very pleasant flavor to it. I added a small bit of coarsely-ground sugar to my cup. The coffee was piping hot, making the cups almost too hot to hold. After a few moments, I had my first sip – it was strong and delicious. My eyesight and brain function immediately sharpened. I was aware, alert, and full of vim. I might never need another Red Bull again! By the time I finished my cup, I was ready to take on my first Ethiopian adventure – outdoor grocery shopping, Addis Ababa-style! More on that…later.
Until Next Time,
Heather Joy
