Lone Buff Guy At The Gym
So the thing that gets me every time that I am trying the gym thing is the lone buff guy in the gym. I mean, he obviously knows that he is fit, toned and regularly muscled for life, so why does he persist in torturing me while I work out.
Not that it is any business of mine why he comes in and, i could almost swear, uses every single piece of equipment that the gym has to offer. He treads, then spins, then lifts free weights and then uses the set weights, then stretches, then jumps, then crunches. And, you might ask, what am i doing? I am trying to build up to a cardio workout that is unmerciful to my lungs and the muscles in my upper body. I am reasonably fit, ergo, mostly unfit, which is why i am at the gym.
Lone buff guy, you are the reason i stay at the gym. I see the way that you effortlessly work out for the time that you are there before i arrive and why i leave you there after I am done. You are the reason why i thought that i could move from a twenty-minute mile to a fifteen-minute mile in twenty minutes. It is you who i see through the salty perspiration that marks my presence on the treadmill.
I hate your constant presence, but i love the fact that, of all the things that are lost and intermittent in the world, you do not change. I mean, your face changes, as does your skin tone, because every evening at the gym, there is only one buff guy there, you. Buff guy at the gym, did you know that downstairs, they have a basketball court that fits your 6"2 frame? Did you see the swimming pool sign on your way here, because you can work out there too. Why do you choose this gym at this time?
Buff guy at the gym, this is an open letter from me to you. I think you know it’s time to go at 5 today. So help me, don’t be there! But if you are, i will huff and puff and sweat myself into fitness, so that I can carry you out the door myself. That is a promise.
Why I cannot Lose Hope (though the rain falls and tears pool!)
“Do not let your fire go out, spark by irreplaceable spark, in the hopeless swamps of the approximate, the not-quite, the not-yet, the not-at-all. Do not let the hero in your soul perish in lonely frustration for the life you deserved, but have never been able to reach. Check your road and the nature of your battle. The world you desired can be won. It exists, it is real, it is possible, it is yours.”
– Ayn Rand
Vita! Vita! Vita!
Church and Me
When i was young and under the care of my family(i still am, but pretend i’m completely independent),I was sent to Sunday School and Church Camp and Vacation Bible School as well as Adults’Service(Big Church) when I was old enough to sit still for the whole service.
I loved all the teachers that I had. Many of them, we called Aunty and Uncle. My exposure to the church ran the full gamut from Protestant to Catholic. I recall in particular, the Masses in high school were a twice weekly staple. Truth must be told though, when i was a fresher I caught minimal parts of the Homily. Maybe I was the one who was asleep…who knows, it is my story, so i digress willingly.
For the longest time i took the liberty of going to church on my own accord here and visited church after church in a bid to get settled. I was sure I wanted to be in a church, but i found that when you are looking, you have to have specific requests. I prefer a mixed crowd, where there are older couples, singles and grandparents. I also prefer a place where one does not have to dress up formally, especially bearing in mind this summer heat. And please, can we see kids going to Sunday School? Pleease!
I don’t think that there are many places where you can find the kind of lively service and enthusiasm as there is in the Kenyan( more African based) types of services. I have seen them here as i attend churches that have a)Kenyan pastor b)Mostly Kenyan congregation c)Kenyan fellowships. For real, just for a micro moment, i am home again attending a mega service at Uhuru Park with Bishop So-and-So and i am in the Basilica downtown for Mass and I am in the 8,ooo seater hall off Lang’ata Road.
Still, i search. I think that home(read church) is where the heart is. The people that you meet when you are looking for a church are the ones who determine whether you will attend theirs or you will keep away. I have received varied invites to churches of different demographics. Whether it is a Southern Baptist congregation, or a Pentecostal assembly or a silent worship service. I wonder whether my bewilderment at the variety of options is THAT obvious.
Church is meant to be a home away from home. In Kenya, church is our community and our home.Our social gathering place and reference point for all of life( politicians can vouch for that one. I guess I still look for the church of my childhood everywhere i go.
Maybe this is the basis of a a bigger paper…a wider survey of the role of the church in Kenya as compared to the church here. You know you have been in college too long when every post turns out to be a sessional paper in itself!
Have a kanisan-Day!
A Woman and Her Tears
A woman and her tears are never that far apart. In fact, they have a bond as old as time itself. When people say that a woman may worry too much, they see her worry lines and not the trickle on her face that is wet to the touch.
The tears that a woman sheds are for her family, friends and country, and the best part about that is that she is always thinking of them. There are few if any people who would rather be on the other side of this equation, cause when a woman weeps, she weeps for a nation.
These tears are born in her heart, somewhere deep. Maybe she had them inside before she took the first breath. Perhaps both and perhaps all and perhaps the tears are a kind of call. I wish there were a way to count raindrops, maybe then, just then, there would be a measure to the tears that a woman sheds.
Tears are clear and salty. They are a mirror to the inside. Their saltiness shows just how much of a story they tell and the shakes and anguish and joy and sorrow they betray are plain as you dare. Show me a woman with this kind of glory, the glory of a lifetime of tears that she has shed, and i will show you the source of life itself.
Celebrating the First Day of the Summer
Celebrating the first day of the summer, at least officially.
I have problems with the fact that this is my first summer. I don’t mean that I want to be elsewhere, or that I have never been in the hot sun before. No. What I see is a fabulous temperature, much like Nairobi in December and the humidity allows me no rest. Guess what pals told me after I whined about the heat wave that we have just gone through, “Suck it in and take it like an African” I was stunned but calm to some extent. It is true that our ‘country’ Africa is hot and humid and jungle like. Where else but abroad do some people get away with assuming this?
I sit here wondering what to wear. That seems to be the bane of my existence: thinking of what to wear and what to eat. I wonder how I ever thought would get away with a lifetime of following fashion trends, as most Nairobi ladies tend to do. Just the other day I was looking at the summer fashions as I attempted some seasonal shopping. I marvelled the many people in the US who seem to set a trend every time they step out of the house. There seems to be a very individualistic interpretation of whether it is summer or spring. And one doesn’t want to follow every other person who has a trend on their mind, especially at the risk of looking <i>’Kaariko’</i>(also interpreted here as being<i>fresh</i>.
Today, there is no doubt as to what it is, summer at last.We don’t have to dress up for the office. Techies are usually required to be as comfortable as we are and we take full liberty to be as laid back as we can in the dress department. This is akin to getting away with murder, almost . Working at home required dressing with formality and the shirt and tie apparently got lost as i came over here. For me today and every other day isn’t just a dress down Friday, it is dress down every day of the week!
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