And God Laughs

Exiting the Foggy Bottom Metro Station, I instinctively double my pace. Ahead of me lies the last leg of my morning commute.  It’s my favorite. With dirty break beats and bass lines blasting in my brain, I bob and weave through the vanilla ice cream stream leading deep into the heart of Georgetown. Channeling my New York City legs, I am that animated walker – led forward by an overly-enthusiastic stride, rhythmic hand motions, and a flickering wave of lyrics escaping my mouth aimed at startling more subdued passersby.

Over the past weeks the blanket of snow has ebbed and flowed depending on Old Man Winter’s whims.  Dwindling down it leaves a constant streak chasing after me. It’s like the streets are doing their best to imitate a babbling brook. But when the fat flakes fall the cold reasserts itself, arresting the sedentary puddles of water and encasing them in a fragile, splintered sheath – not so different from the one that may surround my heart.

Avoiding the mounds of dirty snow and cracked ice I pass the expensive boutiques that comfortably assert their stature. I can’t help but think that this isn’t the DC with which I am familiar. Then again, even that DC has probably been re-claimed.

Approaching my destination, I start to turn the music down. I can spy my office amongst the Abercrombie & Fitch, Banana Republic and United Colors of Benetton. These sanitized streets are starkly different from the chaos of Monrovia, New York, or New Delhi. And I can’t help but think: How did I end up here again?

It wasn’t an easy decision. After a year in Liberia, the DMV was only supposed to be a pit stop. The East was calling and there were more adventures waiting in Africa and India. But just as soon as my plans were imminent, they disintegrated like the fleeting ash falling from a lit stogie.

Wiping away the dust from still burning embers, it really is like they say: We make plans, and god laughs.

So when I was offered an opportunity to continue the community land rights work I started in Liberia  from an office in DC, I embarked on my own skittish decision-making process. Lists were made, mentors were tracked down, and advice was sought. Did I really want this? Couldn’t I just show up on the spot and do the same thing?

While my pride pulled me to  find my own path on the other side of the globe, my mom insisted: A bird in hand is better than two in the bush. She asked what I would say I did with my time when she introduced me to mythical girls at unspecific weddings. A bird in hand…

Nearly a month into it all it looks like most of my fears have not been realized. The learning has accelerated, as I collaborate with community forestry networks in Nepal seeking to enshrine their natural resource rights in the country’s new constitution, Indigenous People in Indonesia trying to implement a court ruling recognizing their ownership over their customary land, and grassroots activists in India fighting land grabs.  However, my heart did break a little when I saw my first paycheck – taxed and debilitated.

As the momentary rage passes, I remember to realize this stepping stone seems springier than first imagined with opportunities to return East on the horizon.  I can feel the excitement building inside. If only I knew better than to start making plans in my head.

Reversing the steps that brought me into Babylon I head back home. It is only when I finally reach my car, unplug my earphones, and deeply inhale Suburbia that I can sometimes hear Her laughing. I am trying to learn to laugh along. After all, it’s hard not to smile at the thought of the leaves returning to the trees as that cackle edges my dreams closer.