Why I write

I’m just getting on board with the #UgBlogMonth thingie, so I am have some work to do work catching up on missed days even as I keep up with each new day’s post.

So Day 1 we were to answer the question: Why do you write?

Hmm? I wonder… I penned my thoughts on whether I should write or not many years ago, and to date I can’t say I have a concrete answer to that question. Here are a few of my reasons, though this list is not exhaustive. 

I have read some very good writing and want to contribute to that pool. Hopefully the more I write, the better I will get, and in due time my writing will inspire others to follow suite.

I write as an outlet for my thoughts. Vocalising at times is hard, and once words leave my lips there is no way to retrieve them. Writing down what is on my mind helps me sort through my thoughts and often times clean them up before presenting them to the intended recipient. Better outcomes all round.

Last year I wrote because I had a target to meet. As part of a course I was doing, I had to write at least one blog every two weeks. A lot of them have been read by only me. 

Someone I read last year said writing is one way of influencing people you might never get to meet. That is a worthwhile reason to write. Of course it goes with the added responsibility of having influence-worthy content. So even as I seek to write more, I must seek to know more so that all my readers are positively influenced.

For now, I will continue to write and maybe along the way I will find out the why.

Caring for Me

I’m a bit late to this #UgBlogMonth party, but better late than never, right? Well, that (late or never) is a discussion for another day.

Today I am writing, as instructed, about what I do for self-care.

To be honest, that’s a hard one. For the simple reason that I do not intentionally care for self. Not consciously at least. Or at least I did not in the past.  Of late, I am making halfhearted attempts at self-care, since it is a thing, right? I mean, self-care, self-love – whatever you call it - feels like one of those social media trends that might not last beyond the next device upgrade. Looks like I am allowing myself to be swept up in this trend.

I, like so many others I believe, was brought up with the notion that it is noble to look out for others with next to no emphasis on looking after oneself. Jesus first, yourself last, others in between … spells J.O.Y, right?

Not always.

Self-care, as described by the first (and only) site that I have looked up is defined as “any activity that we do deliberately in order to take care of our mental, emotional, and physical health.” - Its purpose: improved mood, reduced anxiety and a good relationship with oneself and others. 

See, it’s close to impossible to give to others what you do not have yourself. While it is noble to instill in little humans a heart for others, and to nip the evil of selfishness in its bud, we need to acknowledge that it is next to impossible to care for others without first caring for yourself. Actually it’s impossible. One might keep up the façade for a bit but it soon comes crumbling down.

Operative word in the definition up there is deliberately. Admittedly I used to occasionally do things I enjoyed but these were usually relegated to "free time" which was a rarity. 

So over the past few months I have intentionally added me-time to my schedule, as opposed to filling it with work, service and social responsibility. In this me-time, I do things that rejuvenate and refuel me, making me stronger for the journey of life.

I started doing a movie or two in cinema every Monday, usually on my own, usually action or animation, preferably 3D. It was discounted so did not feel too indulgent (See the reluctance to spend on self). That partially takes care of the mind side of things, as for the most part I am not too mentally invested in what is happening on the screen, but can push aside other cares of the day and just get lost in the story. For lock-down, I have subscribed to Netflix and looked up some of my favourite series, though that is a slippery slope. 

At other times, to clear my mind I will play Candy Crush or watch DIY videos on YouTube till the mental tangles straighten out and I am able to apply my mind more productively to the task at hand. 

I love to read novels, and the further from reality the story, the happier I am. I get lost in novels and will usually block out all else till I have completed a good story. In pursuit of discipline, I need to allocate a specific time to novels, probably the hour before bed.  

For physical well-being, I started dancing, and have written a couple of posts on that previously, here and here. Dancing was the extent of my physical activity for the week, and I enjoyed it until social distancing happened. For the past three weeks that I have been working from home, I have incorporated a 1 hour workout routine into my daily schedule, 5 days a week. I stare at my laptop screen and all day and this one hour is a chance to look at something else, be outside, and move about. I’m thinking of how I can maintain this post-covid as this time usually finds me in traffic or some other evening engagement. 

I find that the best way to effectively do this self-care thing is to first of all schedule, then secondly stick to the schedule. If that rejuvenating activity is not on schedule, chances are I will not find time for it. After it is on schedule, I need to remind myself that it is as important as everything else on the schedule so should not be pushed aside in favour of something else. Scheduling a fun activity is actually motivation to work harder at the other tasks in order to finish in time for it.  

Besides the DO’s of self-care there are also the DON’Ts. I try to control what I let into my life. Of course with social media, there’s all sorts of stuff flying at you from all directions all the time but there are ways to filter out what actually hits. Simple acts like blocking someone whose updates do not speak life or muting/leaving groups with more dampening than uplifting content can reduce the amount of negativity coming my way. I mean, it is my data, my time, my devices, my life. I also find people or content to follow that speaks of hope and greatness. This ranges from church material and leaders to music and art. 

The lock-down has allowed me the blessing of solitude in which I can do the much needed soul searching that everyday busy-ness did not allow. Spending time with God, searching out my purpose for being, understanding my shortcomings and harnessing my gifts, rethinking all my actions and decisions - meeting me. 

The more time I spend with me the better I understand how to take care of me in a way that will equip me to take better care of others. 

No fear

It is a beautiful day, sunny but not oppressively hot. A comfortable breeze keeps everything bearable.

Downtown is crowded. At first glance it looks like business as usual. Until one notices the array of face coverings almost everyone is sporting. They are meant to be masks. Some are real masks. An N95 here, a FF2 there, a smattering of disposable surgical masks. A number of the latter are in advanced states of degeneration making one wonder at the effectiveness of the same. But the true masks are few in comparison to the improvised ones – hankies, bandanas, random bits of cloth of questionable origin, fashion masks – anything really to give the wearer the assurance that there is a guard of sorts on what they inhale.

Then there are the guys at the street corners with backpack sprayers, usual pesticidal contents replaced by a soapy mix they offer to everyone within reach. And most passers-by accept, almost absent-mindedly holding out their hands to receive the soapy spray and rubbing their palms together vigorously as they hurry on their way.

The drugshop is busy. I sit and wait for my relatively massive order to be packed, trying to keep out of the way of the other customers in the small space. Every few minutes, a harried looking person stumbles in, asks at the counter for a mask, and stumbles out again on receiving a head shake from the pharmacy attendant. There is this one guy with a backpack and a nearly full spray bottle. He is trying to sell to the pharmacy. Presumably sanitizer. He succeeds and I see him smile as another man (presumably the owner) tells the cashier to pay him for some bottles of the stuff. The smile is triumphant but tight.

His expression is mirrored in almost everyone I see. The darting glances, the pursed lips and flared nostrils (if they are not hidden behind a mask), the hurried steps, the unconscious folding in of self and minimizing of movements to reduce the chances of brushing up against anyone or anything.

It is not business as usual. There’s fear in every movement, action and expression. And the brightly beautiful day is a disturbing counterpoint to the mood. Dark clouds, billowing smoke, amoured vehicles on the streets would give them a tangible focal point for this blanket of terror. But all they have is stories of a deadly disease devastating outside countries and recently imported into our own. It’s nothing tangible, nothing visible that they can see and run from. So they fear.

I jump on a boda to get back to office with my purchases. The more uptown streets are not business as usual. The empty parking slots are many, the pedestrians few and moving cars fewer. The sun still shines, the breeze still blows. It is a beautiful day.   

I see him sleeping in the shade of some decorative shrubbery on the traffic island. You probably can picture him – his clothes no more than tattered rags that gave up their colour long ago in favour of beggar-brown, more dirt-caked skin than is decent visible through the multiple rips and holes, matted hair and beard – that kind. He is asleep in the middle of the day, snoring softly amidst the fear and panic. No mask adorns his face, and those blackened hands have definitely not seen any soap, much less sanitizer in eons. For him, no planning how to survive the pending lockdown, no worrying about lost jobs, economic crises or super bugs. For him, no fear.  

The Last Dance

It is a warm evening, deceptively calm. The evening traffic getting here is lighter than usual. The crowd at the bar is thin. A few familiar faces. I draw one of the instructor’s attention to the time – it’s past half seven and there’s no sign of the class starting. He seems shocked by the time. Like most people, he’s been caught up in a conversation about the global pandemic that seems to creep closer by the day.  It’s the reason for the reduced traffic at rush hour, the lower numbers at the bar, the hushed conversations. It’s the reason we all grab at the instructor’s little bottle of sanitizer as the class starts.

But the fear of a distant pandemic is soon washed away by the music and the dance. The effort expended on learning the new steps leaves little room for thoughts of much else. I get carried away in the beauty of the dance, the last of the work tension slipping away as the class progresses. I notice a familiar face among the spectators. I’ve seen him here a couple of times before, but I’ve seen him somewhere else as well. I have not seen him dance though. Is he good? I could use a good dance partner this evening, seeing as to how it might be my last for a while.

As the class ends, I walk over to where my bag is and grab my coupon for a drink. The familiar person I saw earlier is at the same table so we strike up a conversation. He reminds me of where I have probably seen him before and compliments me on my dancing. The social dance begins and he asks for a dance. We step onto the floor and off we go, swept into a world of music and movement. The conversation that began before the dance floor continues, but now in more than just words. Our hands, our eyes, our bodies convey messages beyond words. One dance becomes two, then three.

Is he good? Boy, is he good!

He leads and (for the most part) I follow. I laugh over my mistakes – and they are many. He graciously pauses to talk me through some of the more intricate steps. He frowns at me when I go off one way despite his signals to go the other. I smile sheepishly back and he laughs. I tell him he’s a good leader and it is not just an empty compliment. I want to follow his lead.

I joke about possibly dancing blind-folded so as to better focus on the signals his body is sending me through our joined hands. He suggests I close my eyes, and I laugh. That takes a truckload of trust, but as I think about it I realize that – in this moment – I do trust him. So I close my eyes.

It is one of the weirdest feelings ever, dancing with my eyes closed. Unable to see the dance floor, my feet, the other dancers (and they are quite a number by this time), his facial expressions. Fully relying on the signals I am receiving from his hands alone. Fully trusting him to lead me across the dance floor, around obstacles both moving and stationary. I can only maintain it for a short while and quickly open my eyes, much to his disappointment if the look on his face is anything to go by. We continue to dance anyway, him leading and me following. We swing, we sway, we spin, we laugh, we talk.

My usual departure time arrives and passes. I do not want to leave just yet. But eventually I have to go and he walks me to my car. We say our goodbyes, hoping to see each other again at the class the next week.

We do not, for the lock-down begins the next day. I am glad I got him for my last dance.

Learning To Follow

I think I first got introduced to afro-latino dancing around 2013, and have been doing it on and off over the years. Never taking it particularly seriously, I had not danced much in nearly 3 years. Then towards the end of 2019 and my Harvest Institute Leadership Course, I resumed informal dance classes, continuing with these into 2020 until the need for social distancing put a stop to that. While I was happy to get my weekly dose of exercise in such a fun way, it quickly became clear to me that I was not many people’s choice of dance partner. And with a head full of insight from nearly a year of leadership training, I was able to quickly figure out why.

The things is, I love afro-latino music (Salsa, Bachata, Merenge, Kizomba, and their cousins Reggaeton and Zouk) for the simple fact that it is very dance-able to. For the most part I have no idea what is being sung, but those beats yank at my heart strings (and my body) in a way few other things do. However, there’s one aspect of afro-latino dancing that I find both great and frustrating in equal measure, and that’s the fact that it is a partner dance. This is all well and good, for the most part. You have someone to share the excitement of the dance with. Unless you don’t. But not having a partner is not the hardest part.

The frustrating bit is that it is a man-led dance. Which means the male partner leads the female

partner. He determines the steps, the intricacies, the style, everything. And I’m female, so I do not get to lead. Which is fine if I have a male partner who is higher up on the rank of dance-know-how and knows what he is doing. With subtle twists and tugs and prods, a good dance partner can lead even the most amateur learner who is willing to be led.

And THAT is the root of my frustrations. Being led. See all these courses we do (Harvest Institute Leadership Course inclusive  - LOL), TED talks we listen to, preachings, teachings etc talk about “How to be a better leader”. It’s all Lead, Lead, Lead. Hardly anyone talks about how to be a good follower. Okay, the church does talk about following Christ, but you get my drift. And in my day-to- day life, I am leading most of the time.

So you can imagine how hard it is to cast off the “Lead” command for an evening and take up the “follow” command. Letting someone else take the reins, be in control…WOW! How?! It requires a very real mental shift, and some days I just can’t find the energy to make the shift.

As I mentioned, a good dance partner will skillfully lead even the most amateur dancer and make them look like a star. So an intermediate dancer like me should shine with a good partner. I think John Maxwell’s Law of Respect kicks in here. It states: People naturally follow leaders stronger than themselves. I believe on a subconscious level, I assess my partner’s “strength” in terms of how good they are at the dance and decide whether to allow to be led and how much. Obviously things fall apart when I partner with someone who is not as skilled in dancing and I don’t fully allow myself to be led by them.

Needless to say, my most fulfilling dances are with more skilled partners. I have also noted that, when

I consciously allow myself to follow my partner’s lead, regardless of how skilled (or unskilled) they are, it is a win-win for both of us. So, the key to my getting the fullest joy out of afro-latino dancing – and to becoming most people’s choice of a dance partner – is in me learning to follow.

I am learning.

This is Legacy

In February this year, I had the opportunity to sing with the Worship Harvest choir at the Evening of Hymns. This was a fundraising event for a pool to be constructed at the Joy Centre in Wakiso that would contribute to the center’s self-sustainability. With the limited time available for preparation, rehearsals were squeezed in at the weirdest of hours - 7am on Saturday morning, 3pm on Sunday afternoon - with a lot of practice being done by the singers and instrumentalists on their own.  It took quite a bit of discipline and sacrifice.

Anyway, 16^th February eventually arrives. The final sound-check is done, we go to change into our stage clothes...make-up, drink water, prayers…and we’re on.

And it was beautiful! The stage lights shining on the white outfits made us look like angels and lent an otherworldly atmosphere to the whole space. The instruments sounded perfect. And the voices…wow. As the opening notes of the first hymn swelled to fill the room, my heart swelled with happiness. 

The evening unfolded beautifully. We sang, we laughed, we danced, we worshipped the Creator in music. I am sure tears flowed at some point.

Towards the end, Pastor Mosze invited Uncle Ben to the stage to give a few remarks. Rev Canon Ben Mugarura (popularly known as Uncle Ben) and his wife, Auntie Joy are behind the Joy Center in Wakiso. This is a youth leadership and development center that seeks to equip and develop young people for leadership. Uncle Ben and Auntie Joy have been in the business of developing young people for decades. Uncle Ben has held several youth chaplaincies across the country and was also chaplain at St Francis Chapel Makerere.

As a matter of fact, Uncle Ben is considered the grandfather of Worship Harvest Ministries. St Francis Chapel had a music outreach program called Come Alive that through a series of events, gave birth to what is now Worship Harvest Ministries.

Standing with the choir as Uncle Ben took the microphone, I could see what he saw: a recently opened 3000-seater auditorium in a massive half constructed building, nearly filled to capacity on a Sunday night. I also saw (and I would like to believe he did too): the hundreds of families represented, worshipping together, finding hope and a home through this ministry, not just this evening in this place but every day in a myriad of places. I saw lives transformed, businesses blessed, communities healed, excellence embodied, chains broken, limits discarded, dreams birthed and nurtured. And through it all, Christ glorified.

Uncle Ben spoke a few words, handed the microphone back and made his way back to his seat. And all I could think was: This is Legacy.

PS: All photos in this post are from the Worship Harvest Ministries Facebook and Instagram pages.