New to ONELOONEY IDEA - read below
In 2006, we began a relationship with Ethiopia that we cannot turn our backs on.
In Ethiopia, the majority of people build a life with less than a dollar a day.
A dollar a day does not buy basic necessities.
We all have challenges. At this point in my life I am living with abundance. It doesn’t feel good to continue to accrue treasures when so many live with scarcity. I want to choose something different.
Impulsivity is a choice of the privileged. But, the privileged have a responsibility.
PLEASE consider pledging your support to me, through financially supporting the work of Canadian Humanitarian in Ethiopia. My original goal was to get FIFTY people to pledge a dollar a day for the 365 days of this challenge. But, give what you feel you can toward my campaign—no amount is too small, every dollar makes a difference in the life of another—or continue to make a difference through your own chosen channels. The link to my personal pledge page is below.
Betam amisegnalo.
Ethiopia 2006
Our adoption group—twenty-eight of us—visited the orphanage where Yohannes (and the other adopted kids) had lived. There, the orphanage director told us that Yohannes had a sister. We were surprised—to say the least. We had the opportunity to go and meet her, and give Yohannes a chance to see her one more time. Kristin and Fraser were on that trip with us. We were scheduled for a shopping tour of Addis Ababa afterward.
We stopped and got out at the Kechene Women’s Pottery Centre, a hand-sculpted mud hut with a pale tin roof. The air was thick with smoke by mid-afternoon; the diesel cars and coal stoves exhaled with such alarming regularity that the sun struggled to seep through the haze. As the others proceeded, I stood, engulfed. The spit in my mouth evaporated. My body shuddered. The adoption. The heat. The dust. The orphanage. The sister. The pottery. Time stopped.
I dragged my feet through the red earth, and swung the chain-link gate aside. My whole body cried, and yet no tears fell. As the others neared the studio, a chorus of excited voices hung upon the smog as if infused with hot air. My gaze shifted and settled upon a row of massive pots sprawling across a carpet of dirt, and absorbing the sun’s rays. The pots were a mesmerizing shade, not the colour of sunsets or burning embers, or the mixed tone of a blood orange, or the soft shade of an apricot, but the shade of sandstone, woven like cinnamon threads through the rocky edges of the Grand Canyon. The cavernous rim and deep belly of the pot looked comforting and I longed to slip inside and collapse against its sloped curve.
I wanted to forget the story of a sister that had eroded my fantasy adoption tale.
I felt a hand on my shoulder as one of our drivers guided me forward. I moved toward the entrance, and the chorus of voices suspended in hot air popped and drifted around the corner. I followed the din.
The entry was cave-like and it took a moment for my eyes to adjust. Women sat on either side of me in the dimly lit hall. Their knees hugged a round table as they worked and wedged the clay. I stared at them for longer than was polite. Each was silent and unsmiling, caressing and shaping their art with mud-covered hands. I willed them to take their piece of earth and cast a new mold for the story that had been fired into my mind. I forced myself to pull away, and left them in the dank vestibule and went inside to the showroom to find Ward and the kids.
After we filled our bags with mementos and gifts, we went back to the van. Our family was quiet on the drive, as our companions talked about the treasures they had found. Everyone was excited to have this day of shopping. We had been looking forward to it too, but that was before we had learned of Faven. Now we were laden with this story that we would have to carry for our son.
Our large group would not be safe at the market, so instead we went to Churchill Road, an area for tourists. The van doors opened, and peddlers and beggars glommed to us like dust to sweat. I held Yohannes tight to my chest and followed the group to the tin stalls, which sat in long rows, side-by-side-by-side. An odorous trickle of water flowed past the vendors and disappeared down the road. I stepped over it, and instinctively stopped breathing through my nose. I meandered near the periphery, not wishing to engage in the bartering required. Ward was more at ease negotiating prices for our trinkets. I walked along the edges of the shacks, amidst the disabled and disadvantaged. Each pulled at my t-shirt, and moved their hands through the air, picking up bits of imagined food and popping it into their mouths. As if we played charades, I found myself guessing, “Megeb? (food)” and their eyebrows rose in assent, and hope. My heart strained as I shook my head and replied, “Yikurta(sorry)”. I hid behind dark sunglasses, and used Yohannes as a shield.
“Ferenge, ferenge . . . come,” the vendors chanted.
“How many scarves should we take back?” Ward called.
“A dozen?” I answered. How many of these children would fit in our house?
“Is 60 birr a good price?” Ward asked.
I simply lifted my shoulders.
“Good price for you . . . Konjo (beautiful),” the vendor called out, waving to me.
“Honey, do you want a traditional dress? This one or this one?” Ward called.
I walked over to have a look, “Sen-teh-no? (How much?)” I asked the vendor.
“Fie hundred,” he answered.
“Bezu (too much), I replied.
“Good price for you missus. Three hundred,” he countered.
Three hundred was about $35.00; we could easily pay that. However, the vendor most certainly created an inflated price for us ferenges (foreigners); Ward, looking for a fairprice and not wanting to be duped, continued the negotiation. I walked off, and left him to it. Given the desperation of the environment, the bartering felt ugly to me. If only I could have played “Robin Hood”, and redistributed money from the rich to the poor. But, I knew that once the money ran out, the desperation would return. Moreover, I would only feel good for a minute, because as soon as I handed a dollar to one person, I would turn and see another, and another, in need.
Yohannes and I continued to meander. The flies buzzed all around us, I waved my arm sporadically to keep them from landing. The children who had gathered to gawk at us—a white-skinned, white-haired woman carrying a brown boy—had flies sitting in the corners of their eyes. I stared at them. How will you survive? What can I do to make a difference?
“Shinti!” Yohannes exclaimed with urgency, and we scampered off in search of a bathroom.
How much do I have in my life? BEZU. Too. Damn. Much.
I can no longer breath amidst the debris of consumerism scattered across our living like confetti. “Excess consumption is practically an American religion,” wrote Lisa Mclaughlin in TIME magazine.
My Loonie Idea has fallen to the sidelines because implementing it FOR my family has been impossible. And, instead of plundering on, I have used them as an excuse to continue my (our) thriftless habits. Starting a NEW habit is hard and requires dedication, but leaving an OLD habit demands sacrifice.
I know what you’re thinking… “You’re halfway through this loonie thing, and you JUST learned that.” I get it. But, here is the thing, I really, really wanted my kids and my husband to embrace this quest of MINE, not simply because it is one of the best ideas I have ever had, but because I believe it will change lives. Our “homes are full of stuff, but [our] lives are littered with unfulfilled promises,” says Peter Walsh.
De-cluttering is the new decorating scheme.
The man at the market—the one with whom Ward and I negotiated a price for some dresses—he’s living every day with the hope that he will sell enough to support himself and his family. When extravagance is not an option, every item, every action has a living purpose. Laurèn and Yohannes learned in school recently that our basic needs include: food (including water), shelter, and clothing.
Food.
Shelter.
Clothing.
Travelling reminds me that I am taking my life for granted. As the “manager of merchandise” in our home, I have the arduous task of being the steward of our stuff. My care-taking capacity is undermined by the desires of the people I love—and my eagerness to see them happy—as well as the ease of purchase, given our abundance. Our over-consumption may not DIRECTLY affect someone else, however, keeping what we NEED and donating the excess can provide for others. But the habit change requires more than just reducing, it also means REFUSING TO GET MORE STUFF. This is where the rubber meets the road. The loonies saved can roll toward supporting great work elsewhere in the world.
The things I own do not make me happy. But, I am spending so much time taking care of, and organizing all of our things, I have no time or energy for the things that do make me happy: my kids, my husband, my family, and my friends. I am sinking in a quicksand of my own making.
“A seed planted, and not watered is a neglected promise.” Wendy Flemons
