My Jewish divorce, my Get, my spiritual separation was complete last Wednesday.  I’ve been wanting to write about it since that afternoon, when I smiled and cried and walked in silence in the cold sunshine along Lake Michigan.  And yet, I couldn’t seem to find the words.

 I could talk about it.  But I couldn’t write it.  Perhaps it was so precious, so tender, I was afraid I wouldn’t do it justice.  That I wouldn’t “write it right.”  That it, or I, might be misunderstood.

How do you explain what it is to know that your status is changed?  That you are changed.  That the state of Washington gave you a piece of paper dissolving your marital union.  But that your Rabbi, your Cantor and your friend, Mary Jo – your Beit Din – gave you peace.  And that you don’t know whether to scream it from the rooftops or to hold it closely, protectively to yourself?

 How do you say what it is to be witnessed at your most vulnerable, ripped up, rawest state?  To read the letter you wrote to your husband the night before, telling him how you are different and better for knowing him?

How do you explain what it is to utter these words: “Thus, do I release you from any religious marital obligation to me, in order that you may be completely free to follow your own path. As our marriage was consecrated according to a sacred covenant, so this shall be for you from me a bill of divorcement, a letter of release, and a document of freedom in accordance with the customs of the people Israel.”

To do this through heaving, snotty sobs.  To reach into your bag to retrieve a blue and white checked hanky – a remnant from another failed relationship.  To smile and know that he is with you.

How do you say what it is to tear a piece of fabric as Jews do when one has died?  That piece of fabric being a piece of your wedding canopy, embroidered by a friend with the words “honey grace.”  Except that the “grace” is gone because you gave it to your friend April in South Carolina.  But that you held onto the “honey” – this man who literally picked you up off of your feet when you met him and made you believe in romance, kissing and holding hands.  Who reminded you that maybe, just maybe, you are a desirable creature in the world and that one day you will find love again.  One day.  To have your Rabbi insist that he is Elijah the Prophet in drag.  And to know no matter who he is that he is with you in this moment.  Right here in this room.  At this Get.  As is April.  As is Rainey, the artist who stitched the words “honey grace.”

How do you explain what it is to cut a tear into the green, embroidered fabric and then rip with intention – being directed to think of what you are separating from?  And to then be instructed to walk away, and to think about what you are walking to.  And to hear the words, and know that the answer is simply and only, “Greater Love.”

How do you tell what it is to have your friend greet you outside of the synagogue and place a red thread wrapped in silver around your wrist?  For her to remind you that in Kabbalah a red thread signifies protection.  And that by placing it on your left wrist, the pathway from the main artery to the heart, that you might remember that you are protected.  And of what you are moving toward.  That it resides in you already, in your heart.  That “Greater Love.”  And to notice that she is wearing a twin version of the bracelet on her left wrist.

 How do you give words to what it is to walk into the ritual bath and take photographs of yourself in the mirror before and after your prayers and immersion, wondering if you look different?  Because you feel different.  To wonder if you should paste the blue bindi back on your forehead – for truly, now you are no longer married.  And to decide that you aren’t quite ready to let this shiny, sparkly piece of face jewelry go yet.  To know that it has come to be your calling card as much as your shaved head.

How do explain what it is to have your Cantor tell you he stands in awe of how present you are for your life?  Your terribly romantic, emotional, overly sensitive life.  And to know you wouldn’t have it any other way.

 I guess I just did.

In the final scene of the movie Torch Song Trilogy, Anne Bancroft talks with Harvey Fierstein about what it is to lose one’s spouse.  To set the table for two instead of one, “because you forget.”  To throw away groceries “because you forgot how to shop for one.”

“I could have told you what to expect,” she says to her son.

I didn’t know what to expect when Lee and I dissolved our marriage.  I still don’t.

Tomorrow I receive a Jewish divorce, a Get.  And then I will immerse myself in the Mikvah, the ritual bath.  I had no idea this process would unleash such strong emotions in me, but it has.

My civil divorce was final September 17, 2012.  It fell on Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year.  And my friend Michael’s birthday.

I knew the divorce was final even before our mediator contacted me.  I could feel it in my bones.  It seemed poetic.

When I received the legal documents in the mail a few days later, I felt sick and sad and confused.  But now, I am just plain leaky.

The woman who runs the Mikvah called yesterday to remind me of the process.  No makeup.  No nail polish.  No contact lenses.  Nothing between me and the water.

She instructed me to bring an unopened toothbrush.  And she reminded me that the Mikvah, for whatever occasion it is used, is a physical marking of the separation of time – separating what was from what will be.  Those words choke me up every time.

I remember asking my Rabbi for a Get.  I wondered if he thought it was silly and antiquated.  He said he thought it brilliant and profound.  And that “a spiritual presence was with you at your wedding.  Why wouldn’t it be with you at your divorce?”

I know that this Get will further sever my tie to Lee.  A 15-year attachment and partnership I have never known before.  And I’m fairly certain that it will free both of us to become who we are meant to be.  And yet, every time I speak of it, explain it to someone, a fresh wave of tears spills out of me.

I don’t know what to expect tomorrow when I read the words of the Reconstructionist Egalitarian Get – before my Rabbi, my Cantor and my friend Mary Jo.  I don’t know what I might feel when I emerge from the water.  How could I?

But at this time tomorrow I will know.  Just like I know about the spoiled groceries.  And one day, someone else might know too.

 

 

My friend Slade’s voicemail says “Sing me a song…And make it pretty.”

The first time I sang into it I was in Charleston, SC – where we met.  I was visiting my birthmother on what I then  believed was the occasion of her passing. 

I was in the parking lot of the hospital, walking to my car.  His request surprised me.  I tripped over my words, muttering something like, “Um….Um….I’ll sing this for my birthmom. ”

“The moment I wake up.  Before I put on my make-up.  I say a little prayer for you. .. Forever. And  ever.  You’ll stay in my arms and I will love you…” 

It felt really good.

I am not a singer.  However, since receiving that initial “invitation” to share my voice, I’ve been singing quite a bit to the people in my life.  I don’t plan it.  It just happens.

I told my birthmom about singing into Slade’s voicemail when I returned to the hospital later that day.   She liked it.  Then I sang her the Supremes.

“Ain’t no mountain high enough.  Ain’t no  valley low enough.   Ain’t no river wide enough, to keep me from you.” 

She told me about the time that she and her husband were on the same plane as Diana Ross from Charleston to Detroit.  It kind of became “our song.”  I sang it to her again as I walked backwards out of the hospital room in my blue gown and gloves on the last day of my visit.

My birthmom didn’t pass.  She is very much alive.  And I’ve sung to her over the phone as she has been moved from hospital to hospital to rehabilitation center.   Van Morrison’s “Into the Mystic.”   Suzanne Vega’s “Gypsy.”

I felt a little silly, but I couldn’t help myself.  I told my friend Lynn about it.  She reflected that, for her, it seemed a beautiful way to just “be” with someone when there is nothing left to say.  Like the way they play cards in her family, as a way of just “being” together.

Permission.

Last night I got a call from a young woman I know.  She is pregnant and planning to give her son up for adoption.  She is pained and extraordinarily conflicted – torn wanting to keep this child but also wanting what is best for it.   She wanted to know about my experience.  How I felt about being adopted.   If I had ever resented my birthparents.

 “Never.” 

I told her my story.  And I told her how my relationships with my birth parents have changed since they became real in my life – living, breathing, wonderfully imperfect human beings.

And when there was nothing left to say, but she was still crying and scared and alone, I said “I’ll sing to you.”   And I did. 

I said goodbye to my biological mother this morning.

I went to the hospital alone, and suited up in a blue plastic gown and gloves.  A precaution due to possible infection – CDIFF.  When I walked in she said, “I knew you were here…I saw your orange shoes.”

I took her hand  in mine and we talked.  I told her about S. not showing up yesterday and played her a YouTube video of one of his songs.  And I cried.  Not about S.  But because we were having this kind of conversation, because she had oxygen tubes in her nostrils and because I felt the hospital bed rise and fall under me and I doubted that we would do this again.

I turned on Pandora and we danced to the O’ Jays Love Train. “Tell all the folks over in Africa.”  “Been there,” she said, pointing to me.  “Tell all the folks in Egypt and Israel too.”  “Been there,” I said.  “Israel.”

She had asked for no tears when I arrived on Friday.  But today I sobbed.  I apologized, and she said it was OK.  She told me to thank Mel (my dad) and Linda (my mom) and my birthdad (who I am also in touch with) for all of his good thoughts.  I had called him before I came and told him about her condition.

A doctor came in and asked her for permission to talk with a skilled-care facility.  She nodded.

She told me we would stay in touch.  And I reminded her how hard it is for her to talk on the phone.  She told me she could listen.

She told me that she loved me and that I was beautiful and I had lived a good life and that I would live a good life.  I touched her face and her hair and we looked into each other’s brown eyes.   The same eyes. She didn’t cry.  I touched her legs and told her she was strong.

She seemed at peace.  Resolved.  I sang Ain’t no Mountain High Enough.  A nurse came in to administer her respiratory treatment.  Another showed up to take an x-ray.  “He’s cute,” I said.  And we laughed.

I walked out backwards, pulling off my gloves and gown, waving with both hands and singing “No wind. No rain. No winter storm…..”

I washed my hands through two rounds of Happy Birthday, just as I was instructed, and sobbed.

Back at her home I told my Aunt about our visit.  How we had promised we’d stay in touch but we knew we were lying.  I threw myself in her arms and made those wounded animal sounds I had made in the hours before I met her three years ago, when my then-husband layed at my side.   I couldn’t breathe.  She held me and said, “You will.  Maybe just not on this plane.”

She took me to the airport.  And when I got to the gate I plugged in my cellphone.  Pandora turned itself on without any intention on my part.  Baby Love was playing.  I shook my head, smiled and cried.

I’ve been carrying around a remnant of my chuppah (wedding canopy) in my bag since I left Seattle in late August.  It’s a piece a green fabric that my friend Rainey embroidered.  It reads “honey grace.”

I remember asking her what it meant when she gave it to me 10 years ago.  She said, “You know… Honey. Grace.”  I didn’t know.

I had wanted Lee and I to disassemble the chuppah together as a separation ritual when we divorced.  He thought it was too painful.  So on my last day in Seattle, I sat alone on my deck overlooking Bainbridge Island, holding a seam ripper and my chuppah, and I pulled off the panel reading “honey grace.”  It tore at the edges.  I thought it both symbolic and poetic.  Like Jews ripping their clothing when a loved one has died.

This morning, as we were preparing to go the hospital, my biological Aunt Julie shared some of her fears and feelings with me in terms of having courageous conversations with her sister, my biological mother, who is dying.  I told her something I had learned in church basements – to bring her G-d along with her in all her endeavors today.  I added that when she does, her heart has no choice but to stay open, and she will experience grace.  And I showed her my scrap of green embroidered fabric and told her its story.

Later today, I went to one of those church basements.

I was expecting to see S. today – the cute boy/man I met Friday night here in Charleston.  We had talked and made out like teenagers until the wee hours of the morning in the parking lot of a frozen yogurt shop.  The next day he drove two hours roundtrip to spend three hours with me, and asked if he could see me today.  And then never texted or called.

He had seemed like honey in my time of sorrow.  And he was.

Grace was me not waiting around on him.  I went for a walk.  Talked to some friends and heard myself say out loud I hadn’t done anything wrong.  That this was “his stuff.” And that just because he wasn’t showing up today, didn’t mean that yesterday and the day before wasn’t real.  That it wasn’t honey.

Grace was me going to that church basement — where and I saw his friend A.  She had approached me when I first met her on Friday and told me how much she appreciated my story about staying sober through my divorce.  About leaving my marriage with grace and dignity.

Since then, she had asked her boyfriend to move out.   We spoke for a while and she told me  she wanted what I talked about – to leave with grace.   I pulled out my chuppah remnant again and told her its origins.

As I spoke, I yanked at its edges, trying to rip it in two. But I couldn’t.  A. offered that she had a knife in her car, and we walked toward it.  I folded the green fabric over the blade and started a tear.  The fabric separated easily.  I handed her “grace” and I kept “honey” for myself.

“Now you walk away with grace,” I said.  “Literally.”  And we put our arms around each other.

And I walked away with honey.

I got a call on Tuesday that my birth mother is dying.  At least she was dying.  Because now she doesn’t seem to be.  She told me that she is not ready to go.  Those were the first words out of her mouth when I arrived in Charleston, SC on Friday.

I flew out of Chicago yesterday, my only prayer being “Get me there ahead of the hurricane….if it is your will.”  And so it was.

Pharen (my birth mom) has COPD.  And pneumonia.  She is 59 and to me, far too young to die.

Her body is bruised from multiple needle pokes and she is wearing oxygen 24/7.  But she is swearing.  And that is a good sign.

When I visited her later in the evening, she told me she wanted to hear some music.  I remembered that I had just downloaded Pandora on to my smart phone and I turned to the Joni Mitchell station.  After a few bars she asked me for Motown.  We are from Detroit after all.  I danced to Natalie Cole, “This Will Be An Everlasting Love.”  The wooden heels of my orange suede booties echoing on the linoleum floor.  I held her hand and we danced.

“You brought a lot of sunshine into my life….You gave me happiness I never knew…And nothing, nothing can take the place of you….”

I closed the door when I got a funny look from the nurse.  She asked to hear The Platters.  And then I showed her a photograph from a recent visit with my birth dad.  She reminded me that he was the love of her life for many, many years.

I told her I had to go.   I knew in that moment that we were complete no matter what happened.  She asked me to bring her chocolate milk in the morning.

I did that today.  But I forgot her Walkman ( Yep. A Walkman) and her cellphone.  I will bring that to her later.

Today I massaged her feet and her legs and her back.  And I told her about a cute boy I met in a church basement here who knows all of my friends in Chicago.  She gave me a double thumbs up.   And I left again….for a little while.

 

 

I arrived home in Seattle a week ago today.  And back in the States just a day prior.

Brussels provided a beautiful buffer between here and there – Rwanda and my present.

Departing the plane, I walked hand-in-hand with Sue through the airport, until we stopped at the place where I went straight to baggage claim, and she and the rest of the group turned right for their connecting flight back to Chicago.

My new friends stood around me in a circle.  And as I said my goodbyes, I immediately began to cry.  And I embraced each of them.  First Rich.  Then Rabbi Brant.  Elaine.  Katie.  Ben.  Brenda.

Bonnie, the 16-year-old from Miami, handed me a note she had written on the plane – “Liora” printed on the outside.  She had traveled without her parents, and I was reminded once again of the “real chops” this almost-woman-girl possessed.

Sue reminded me I had bought a scarf, in case it was cold in Brussels.  That Tim, my old roommate, would be meeting me at the train in just a few hours.  And that I had the address of a recovery meeting.  In essence, that I was perfectly capable of taking care of myself.  And when we parted from our teary embrace, the rest of the group was gone.

I picked up my bags and called my friend Michael in Chicago from a payphone.  It was about 2 a.m. there but I knew he’d be up.  “Holy Crap!   Where are you?” he said.

And so I began to slowly slip back into my life.

I marveled at the toilets in the airport.  Each stall outfitted with seat covers and toilet paper.  Each sink running hot water.  And soap in each dispenser.

I sat with a coffee and journaled while I waited for my old roommate to arrive from Dublin.  And when he did, I cried some more.

We rented an IKEA-clad apartment just minutes by foot from Centraal Station.  Tim stayed just a night, and we ate our way through the city.  French fries with mayonnaise, waffles with sugar, chocolate.  I ate salad without worry and bought fruit that didn’t require peeling from the grocery store.

I knew I was no longer in Africa.  And yet I wasn’t back here yet either.  I was in the liminal space – the in between.  And I was blessed to stay there a day longer than I had planned to, because my flight was canceled.

I watched the agitation of other travelers trying to get home, while I only wondered when and by what route I would arrive.  And if I was in fact, ready, to go home.   I was still on Africa time where my only responsibility was to get on the bus.  Quite literally, to show up.  To surrender, drop expectations and breathe it in, as my mediation teacher had instructed me to do the day before I left.

I made “friends” with a teacher from Bakersfield and an entire family from Brussels while I waited in line for rebooking for nearly 3 hours.  The Belgian family smiled often, laughed and drank orange juice.  They would be missing the Chicago and San Francisco legs of their vacation and flying directly into Los Angeles.  They didn’t seem terribly bothered.  Disappointed, but not troubled.  I told the father his easy smile and laugh gave me solace.

And I was grateful to have another day in Brussels.  To eat another waffle.  To walk on cobblestone.  To order a coffee and linger with my journal, watching the sky opening with light and showers and light again.

A day later, my friend Lisa picked me up at O’Hare.  Everything looked sterile.  And I felt like I wasn’t quite standing on the island waiting for her SUV.  Like I wasn’t quite there.  I texted Sue to tell her I was home.  And that Lisa was taking me to Whole Foods.  She told me she had been there the day before and that it was “too much.”  That she had to leave.

Minutes later, I found myself in tears in the yogurt section.  So many choices.  It all felt like “too much.”    And it was.

A day later, when I arrived in Seattle, I walked into an empty house.  My husband told me he would not be there.  The cats greeted me at the door.  And their litter needed changing.

This week I posted photos on Facebook and watched a video of our group dancing over and over again.  I called our mediator to schedule an appointment to have her draft our final divorce documents.  I’ve been looking at apartments in Chicago online.

I miss my mosquito net and talking to Sue each night before bed.  Before I left, another friend and I had spent weeks talking on the phone each night before bed.  We haven’t done that since I returned.  I’m not sure why.

I’ve exchanged a few photos with Rabbi Brant.  Sue’s travel clock is sitting on my desk – she left it for me so I’d be sure not to miss my plane. We talk and text when we are able.  I re-read Bonnie’s note today.

And I’ve asked the people about me to call me Liora – my Hebrew name that I adopted in Rwanda.

We leave in an hour for the airport.  Sue is reading in the lobby, Ben on the lawn.  Bonnie is journaling.  I have finally posted my blogs from the past days.  And this, my last installment, I am writing by hand.

 We spend the morning back at the market buying last-minute gifts.  Baskets.  Bracelets.  I spy a set of ankle bells like the ones the dancers wore at the traditional Africa village.  Mark, our driver, negotiates the price of 5,000 Rwandan francs and I buy them.

 The vendor pulls out a headdress and I shake my head no.  I look for photographs of me on my phone, dressed in this traditional garb but I can’t find any.  They are all on Rich’s camera and he is not here.  Rabbi Brant pulls out his IPhone and plays the video he shot of me dancing.  The vendors gather round and give me the thumbs up.

Sue and I wander back into the food section, seeking out what we were told was curry but is really a type of salt – most commonly used for cooking beans, to season and to decrease cooking time.  The market is ripe with new smells I cannot place.  Perhaps it is hotter today and the smells are more pungent.  There are few muzungos here and we draw a few stares.

We eat Chinese food for lunch and it is surprisingly great.  A nice change from the potatoes, beans and rice we have eaten at most meals.  And yet, a plate of French fries appears on the lazy Susan and they are gobbled up.

After lunch we stop by the Hotel Des Mille Collines – the Hotel Rwanda – and have a beverage by the pool.  I do not feel any special energy here regardless of what has taken place.  It feels like just another luxury hotel.  I ask everyone around our table to name their “best moments.” 

Prayer with Anna Marie.  Yoga with the workers at the jewelry cooperative.  Ivuka gallery.  Establishing a children’s library at WE-ACTx.  A comedy sketch by the Amohoro children.  Our favorite moments are those that are universal.  Language-less.  The ones that connect us to the people about us.

 

We return to our hotel and I lie on the bed and leak.  Tears streaming down my face.  Sue sits with me, listening.  Holding space.  I am not ready to go back to my life.  And really, I don’t have to quite yet.  I will be getting off the plane in Brussels to meet my old roommate and friend, Tim – traveling from Dublin for one night to meet me.  I am sad to not be traveling with my friends.  To turn off before them.  And yet, it somehow seems right.  That I am going somewhere else.  Not quite yet home.  Somewhere in the in between.

 At the airport we drink a final African coffee (coffee, ginger, steamed milk and cocoa) and board a delayed plane.  My original ticket has me sitting in an exit row but my boarding pass places me further back, in a window seat.  I notice this in Nairobi and point it out to the flight attendant, but the flight is booked.  The man next to me offers to switch seats so I can be on the aisle.  It is good enough.  What Sue and I call Africa good.  And I am grateful for it.

There is Africa good.  And then there’s Africa fabulous.  Sue and I call Africa fabulous those unexpected, serendipitous gifts you couldn’t even begin to imagine.  Like the day she helped set up the jewelry co-op for WE-ACTx.  To her mind’s eye, the women workers seemed distant and disconnected from the American volunteers.  And yet, when the work was finished they spontaneously burst into song and dance, and invited their American counterparts to join them.

 Today is Africa fabulous.

 We are riding our bus called Malcolm X heading North, to a traditional cultural village a few hours East of the Democratic Republic of Congo.  We climb up windy paved roads into the mountains.  The terrain is lush, with terraced gardens climbing steadily up.  A man is hand painting the white stripe in the center of the road.  People are riding their bikes on the shoulder.  And walking, always walking.  With yellow jerry cans for water and carrying sticks on their heads.  Many are dressed for church.

 As a group, we settle into the roles we’ve chosen for ourselves.  Rich is in the front of the bus, shooting photographs.  Nancy and Trudy are talking about travel.  Sue and I share a set of earbuds and have a dance party in our seats – grooving to Donna Summer, Barbara Streisand, Lily Allen and Barry Manilow.  An eclectic mix to be certain.

When we exit the bus, we are greeted with throngs of children selling crayon-colored pictures of elephants and gorillas.  They are selling them.

 Our visit is guided.  A re-enactment of what once was in Rwanda.  All the actor/participants are former poachers, offered a new livelihood. 

 Rich is voted king and dressed in an African sari and headdress.  Rabbi Brant is his advisor.  Katya, the youngest, is queen.  And Trudy, our elder, is the King’s mother.  The rest of us are commoners.  It is pure kitsch.   And we are good sports and play our parts well, especially King Rich.  We learn about the politics of life in the kingdom, and in the king’s bedroom.  About traditional medicine and “”herbal Viagra.”

 A group of men, shirtless, donning headdresses and wearing bells on their ankles, begin to drum and dance.  I can hardly contain myself, and suddenly I am being pulled from my bench to dance in the dirt.  First with a sari-wearing drummer.  And then, and I am indoctrinated.  A spear and shield are put in my hands and a headdress is tied onto me.  And one of the dancers catches my eye.  I follow him.  Arms up and out from my shoulders.  One knee down to the dirt and then the other.  Flipping my head in one direction and then the other.  I am keeping up.  I am following.  And I know it.

 We dance off the dirt “stage” and they take the costume off of me and tell me I am a great dancer. I am dizzy.  I am flying.  And minutes later, I am pulled out again to dance.  The other women join us.  I am breathless and still following.

 My private-secret-fantasy career has been to be a choreographer.  I am dancing with professional dancers right now and I am keeping up.

 We take photographs together.  My lead puts his arm on my arm.  His head to my head.  Sweet.  Gentle.  Another dancer puts his arm around me and places his hand on my breast.  I smile and move it.

 I don’t have words for what has just happened to me, and this is problematic because I am a writer.  My friends show me videos of the dance on the way home.  Sue and I listen to Madonna “The Immaculate Collection” until her Ipod runs out of battery.  We pee on the side of the road. 

 I tell Sue that on the drive up, listening to Lilly Allen, I had the physical sensation and  knowing that I was now divorced.  The paperwork, the mediator, is all detail.  The connection, or at least, a connection, was severed in that moment.  And I am sad, and a little bit more free.

 

 

There is Africa good.  And then there’s Africa fabulous.  Sue and I call Africa fabulous those unexpected, serendipitous gifts you couldn’t even begin to imagine.  Like the day she helped set up the jewelry co-op for WE-ACTx.  To her mind’s eye, the women workers seemed distant and disconnected from the American volunteers.  And yet, when the work was finished they spontaneously burst into song and dance, and invited their American counterparts to join them.

 Today is Africa fabulous.

 We are riding our bus called Malcolm X North, to a traditional cultural village a few hours East of the Democratic Republic of Congo.  We climb up windy paved roads into the mountains.  The terrain is lush, with terraced gardens climbing steadily up.  A man is hand painting the white stripe in the center of the road.  People are riding their bikes on the shoulder.  And walking, always walking.  With yellow jerry cans for water and carrying sticks on their heads.  Many are dressed for church.

 As a group, we settle into the roles we’ve chosen for ourselves.  Rich is in the front of the bus, shooting photographs.  Nancy and Trudy are talking about travel.  Sue and I share a set of earbuds and have a dance party in our seats – grooving to Donna Summer, Barbara Streisand, Lily Allen and Barry Manilow.  An eclectic mix to be certain.

When we exit the bus, we are greeted with throngs of children selling crayon-colored pictures of elephants and gorillas.  They are selling them.

 Our visit is guided.  A re-enactment of what once was in Rwanda.  All the actor/participants are former poachers, offered a new livelihood. 

 Rich is voted king and dressed in an African sari and headdress.  Rabbi Brant is his advisor.  Katya, the youngest, is queen.  And Trudy, our elder, is the King’s mother.  The rest of us are commoners.  It is pure kitsch.   And we are good sports and play our parts well, especially King Rich.  We learn about the politics of life in the kingdom, and in the king’s bedroom.  About traditional medicine and “”herbal Viagra.”

 A group of men, shirtless, donning headdresses and wearing bells on their ankles, begin to drum and dance.  I can hardly contain myself, and suddenly I am being pulled from my bench to dance in the dirt.  First with a sari-wearing drummer.  And then, and I am indoctrinated.  A spear and shield are put in my hands and a headdress is tied onto me.  And one of the dancers catches my eye.  I follow him.  Arms up and out from my shoulders.  One knee down to the dirt and then the other.  Flipping my head in one direction and then the other.  I am keeping up.  I am following.  And I know it.

 We dance off the dirt “stage” and they take the costume off of me and tell me I am a great dancer. I am dizzy.  I am flying.  And minutes later, I am pulled out again to dance.  The other women join us.  I am breathless and still following.

 My private-secret-fantasy career has been to be a choreographer.  I am dancing with professional dancers right now and I am keeping up.

 We take photographs together.  My lead puts his arm on my arm.  His head to my head.  Sweet.  Gentle.  Another dancer puts his arm around me and places his hand on my breast.  I smile and move it.

 I don’t have words for what has just happened to me, and this is problematic because I am a writer.  My friends show me videos of the dance on the way home.  Sue and I listen to Madonna “The Immaculate Collection” until her Ipod runs out of battery.  We pee on the side of the road. 

 I tell Sue that on the drive up, listening to Lilly Allen, I had the physical sensation and  knowing that I was now divorced.  The paperwork, the mediator, is all detail.  The connection, or at least, a connection, was severed in that moment.  And I am sad, and a little bit more free.