34
One month. It's taken almost four weeks to be able to tell about my last visit at the Children's Home and the words still evade me. I've been scared to 'report' about the final visit: there were no miracles, no earth-shattering changes; it was like triage--the needs surpassed the time. Although I've been galavanting across the Northern Hemisphere, I haven't forgotten the Children's Home. Thoughts and experiences tumble around in my head, and just when I feel ready to articulate, there's more sensory imagery and I pause and ruminate once again (which is why I haven't blogged).
I may be in denial that my delusions of grandeur to revolutionize a broken system didn't play out the way I'd envisioned, but I haven't forgotten the children. Haven't forgotten how, when walking towards the gate to leave I felt disheveled from lifting and carrying boney bodies, my hands thick with layers from touching...praying. Haven't forgotten the pleading eyes of children...nannies...volunteers--stay a little longer. They recognized me, called me by name...and I left. But I left hopeful, because there was change and they are looking at starting school, but they need teachers and tomorrow I catch a plane heading west, which will allow for loads of thinkin' time.
*Of course there will be more posts on my trip. I leave for home in less than 24 hours and 'summer camp is over melancholy' will kick in soon.