One of the first questions I was asked upon arriving in Uganda was, “What are your hobbies?”. A little embarrassed that I spent most of my time working, studying, or planning my future, I fumbled to put together an answer. I can barely remember now what I answered, but I think it was a random compilation of things that sounded like hobbies and that I had done once or twice in my life.
“What about you? What are your favorite hobbies?” I asked trying to deflect attention away from my lack of interests.
Jovially, Susan answered, “I like to laugh and hang out with my sisters and listen to music”.
I was sort of thrown off by this answer and immediately thought to myself, “I like to laugh too. I didn’t know that was a hobby.”
That moment was the start to a summer in which I learned to dance with reckless abandon, pursue restoration, find splendor in silence, and realize that there does not have to be some concrete result from every action we participate in. Joy is the result.
I once heard a TED talk by a young teenage boy discussing how he believes that mainstream education should include an emphasis on how to pursue a healthy, happy lifestyle. In America, schools teach us to read, write, add, subtract, and locate North Dakota on a map (I must have missed that day), but what we don't learn is how to balance life, work, school, hobbies, relationships and all of the other things that make for a full and well lived life. This sort of American focus on results and productivity is something that was reluctantly, but gratefully, unlearned while in Uganda. I spent most mornings marvelling at the wild turkeys perched on the roof of our neighbor’s hut while ringing out my handwashed clothes. It was a slower life than I had ever known. Many days I desperately yearned to make a difference and do something useful with my time in Uganda; however, learning to deny the rabid desire for busyness was one of the most useful things I could have done. I came out of the experience with a deep appreciation for slowness and silence that I never could have adopted without a season of rest. There is a certain connection to others, to the Creator, and to yourself that you begin to nurture when you spend enough time away from activity, technology, and work.
I distinctly remember one morning waking up to a storm that, pounding against our tin roof, made me think that our humble home had been relocated underneath a waterfall. I cozied up in my sheets, underneath the unbelievably comforting barricade of my mosquito net, basking in the sensation of being powerless against the frightening beauty of this earth. Hours later as I journeyed outside I saw our chickens and wondered what they had done during the storm. So feisty, but so small, they could have easily been swept away in the storm. I sat on the concrete steps near the kitchen watching the chickens and just thinking about their lives. What would it be like to be a chicken? Where do they go during storms?
And so it went, day after day, contemplating humanity underneath powerful rainfall, befriending chickens and wild turkeys, handwashing my clothes.
