Music Cures All Heartbreak

Music cures all heartbreak.

The day was one like any other: I woke up, got dressed, greeted the cool morning air with a shawl, and met the crunch of red dirt with a smile. I got to school, grabbed my laptop, and set up my work station; today is homework day.

After setting up I begin to ponder over my experiences, looking for something worth writing three pages about. How do you pick a topic when almost every minute of your life seems new and exciting? Finally, the words start flowing out of me in the form of elaborate sentences.

Everyday I look forward to lunch… it’s like a benchmark in my day.

Come on now dear, you’ve made it this far, you’re almost to the happy part of your day.

It’s raining outside. I love the rain.

Suddenly I’m lost inside my heart. I never know how it happens, but it always does. My day is beautiful and full of valuable experiences yet my heart gets caught in the net of home at least once every day.

The storm rages inside of me.

My fist is clenching my heart, or is that a massage?

Do peanut butter and jelly really go together?

Finally… it’s lunch time.

The cafeteria on the hill is full of dark-skinned people and fresh outdoor air. It’s rice and beans again today. The servers each throw a heap of rice and beans on my yellow plastic plate and I walk to a table. I look into the faces of my American friends as they talk excitedly about going bungee jumping and white water rafting. I gaze out to the hills that I can see clearly from the dining hall; they are a little hazy today but I can still see up to the top of the lusciously green landscape.

Not long after lunch I head home with Laura and Liz for our cooking extravaganza. After dropping our things off at the house we head out to the market. Even walking down the noisy and busy street I’m still pondering over missing home.

I miss my two long-haired, white, miniature horse-sized dogs. I miss hearing my dad talk about his predictions on when the ice on the lake will fully fall out to give way to the growth of spring. I miss going to the basement to watch movies and eat popcorn with my mom. I miss wrestling with my brother on the rug in the middle of the living room floor. I miss cheddar cheese and ice cold milk. I miss the smell of my painting and ceramics studios. I miss being able to walk outside by myself at night. I miss being ridiculously busy. I even miss the snow. . .

I try to yank myself out of my ponderings but I find it very difficult until I’m able to distract myself with grocery tasks and sweet orange pineapple juice.

We have Silvia, Laura and Liz’s host sister, with us to help price things at the market. She’s silent all the while except for select moments of bartering or laughter. I can’t help but notice that there’s a pure, innocent joy and love in her eyes that simply can’t be explained. My quiet spirit finally feels at home in this culture that doesn’t require much verbal communication; I love not feeling obligated to say anything.

With every step I take I’m pulling out of my pit and when we finally get home I’m in a supreme state of joy as we’re singing random songs and playing Egyptian Ratscrew. In the final moments of the game it’s just Silvia and I; we are laughing as I keep slapping the face cards while she seems to get every set of doubles. Just watching her smiling face makes my heart skip with joy; she is so beautiful.

As the rest of the group starts on the food, Laura and I run a final errand for ice-cream, milk, and passion fruit. When we return I immediately dive into some tomatoes and then find myself in fistfuls of meat. As I work I sing at the top of my lungs, laugh in-between verses with Silvia, and bust out sporadically in dance—seems fitting as the glow of the pink dining room walls shout “girl power” along with the cooking and Kelly Clarkson playing on Laura’s laptop.

I continue digging into the meat and suddenly find myself envisioning the two men cranking the chunk of red meat through a metal grinder… but before I get too overwhelmed I pretend I’m playing with the mud I find so inviting in the early months of spring back home in Minnesota.

Finally, the meatballs are ready for the pot. As Liz cooks everything on the one charcoal stove I wait in the living room for my turn to be useful again. The boys are playing various types of African drums and before I know it I have one in my lap too. I start playing to the sound of the African drum beat that pulses in my being… I’m liberated. Home falls away and all I see and feel is Africa for the rest of the evening.

Our meal of spaghetti, meatballs, garlic bread, and avocado is a tasty success with the family. Just after I finish eating I jump up excitedly to prepare the banana splits. As I sprinkly the melted Nutella sauce I conjured up over the ice-cream, my host sister, Milly, walks in. I go out with Milly to Tata James and, after some persuading, we all walk back into the house to enjoy the dessert.

The ice cream hits my stomach like a dozen sweet kisses and I’m all smiles when we transition into a time of worship and dancing. Mama Robina, next to me, is such a beautiful display of devotion as her aged body moves fluently with the music that the big grin on my face doesn’t drop until we bow our heads in prayer.

“Father I thank you for digging me out of my pit again. The power of singing and these beautiful African faces transcends that of any home comfort. Thank you for teaching me to live and love in a place where everything I know is so far from me. Thank you for the blessing of a meal and dessert. Thank you for loving me despite me flaws and failures. Thank you for the gift of music and dancing.”