The day of REST

Sunday, March 22^nd, 2015

Sundays might be my favorite day of the week. It’s the one day that always feels totally open and free of obligations. I think I used to mourn Sundays because they were the last stop on the train before Mondays, but I’ve been enjoying the day of rest more than ever since coming to Lesotho.

Sundays here always feel like a breath of fresh air. Sundays mean pancakes for Tsepang and I, and we usually lounge around for a while after we’re done eating, chatting about this and that. It’s the one time of the week where we get to really sit down and talk, because he is a hopeless night owl and I rarely go to bed after 9 during the week. With or without him, I almost always enjoy some pancakes.

Sunday’s also mean cleaning, which I love. I’ve never enjoyed cleaning like this before, maybe because my whole life has never been situated in one room. I guess it was in college, between the off-white walls that made up my dorm room. But my college self, particularly at the beginning, was an extension of my high school self. The self that let dirty clothes pile up and collections of dirt and dust accumulate in my room until one of the mama’s came in and INSISTED that I clean.

Maybe it’s because of how much effort cleaning, and daily tasks in general, take here. I wash clothes by hand, so I don’t let them accumulate for more than a week or else I’ll be doing double duty the next weekend and that means at least 3 hours of scrubbing clothes, hands getting rough from the soap and back getting sore. If I don’t fetch water every day, I have to pump and carry two or three buckets instead of just one. Even though I usually keep my doors closed (to keep the flies out), dust and dirt constantly accumulate. So I sweep every day, multiple times a day.

Maybe it’s just a function of getting older, I don’t know. All I know is that I love the mindless yet focused act of cleaning. I put on my favorite radio station (“Radio 2000: Our Music, Your Memories”) and wash my clothes, sitting in the sun and exhaling a satisfied breath of accomplishment as I hang the last t-shirt on the line to dry. I sweep and mop the floor. I wipe down all my counters. I hang my two throw rugs on the line to get all the dirt out that has accumulated on them during the week. For me, a clear space means a clear mind.

After I do my cleaning, I often spend some time making teaching aids and preparing materials for class tomorrow. Perks of teaching primary school and having small classes include getting to do stuff like this:

Mad libs!

Storyboards!

Colors!

And after that, who knows. Sometimes I just hang out on my porch and read. Sometimes I take a walk, with or without Tsepang. Sometimes I visit a neighbor. Sometimes I go to my thinking rock and stare out at the expanse of green fields and mountains before me, contemplating whatever happens to be on my mind. Sometimes, like today, I fulfill that incessant need that’s developed to write, either in my journal or on the computer.

I often cook, making my bread and my soup stock for the week or spend a lot of time trying out a new recipe.

Crazy for quiche

I make sure to go to bed early, to remind my body that tomorrow is manic Monday. And on Monday, as it does for everyone, the grind begins. The teaching, the sorting out of adolescent fights (Sobbing child: “Madame. Tebollo is beating me!” Tebello: “No madame! She is lying! Etc etc), the talking about sex, the lesson planning, the pondering of new ways to make such and such sink in. Oh, and the gabbing with the other teachers.

….Until the next school break, which is coming on Wednesday. What a great birthday present!

Happy Sunday ya’ll. Khotso.