Uganda (Part 2): Uganda?

It was and wasn't a snap decision to go.

In form, certainly. 

In substance, not.

As to the substance:  I had been searching for a meaningful trip. A journey with consequences, you know?  One with serious implications and long term ones, too. Not just another vacation to consume but a voyage that pushed the boundaries of comfort and of discomfort. An experience that broadened my spectrum. One that challenged me socially and culturally, philosophically and spiritually. An endeavor that put my body, my brain and my heart to good use.  Experiences that might conflict with my opinions.  Experiences that weren't even about me.

Because all this gluten-free

and almond milk 

and this-yoga or that-yoga

and one-thousand thread-count sheets

and therapy (or need of it, or lack of it)

and self-help-psychology (or need of it, or lack of it)

and Eckhart Tolle books

and Dr. Oz medical discoveries 

and "do you prefer the mountains or the beach" vacations

and art - mine, yours, home-made, mass-produced, created or enjoyed -

and the latest fashion trends

and newest handbags

and, shoes, ooh, shoes...

and...

and...

and...

...and all the things we're fortunate enough to have, purchase, or explore in this rich country of ours. Somehow, all these things can become weighty, can direct our attention and energy inward. Sometimes, too much. How do we look? How do we feel? What do we think? What does it mean? Too much self-help can become it's own inward vortex. It seems... so... indulgent.

So I searched for a journey of service, of consequence. A mission.

Originally, my efforts focused on India. Exotic, complicated, dynamic, alluring India.  Home of yogic science and scripture, birthplace of Patanjalii - a sage who authored the Yoga Sutras about 2200 years ago.  (The Yoga Sutras, literally translated as "the path to transcendence," are an ancient guide for living, interacting and self-realization. Step one: know that not only do you experience pain and suffering, but you contribute to it. So stop it. The path? It is eight-fold and rooted in a daily, physically demanding, humbling path known as Ashtanga Yoga. But that's another story entirely....)

India: also birthplace to countless children left without parents, families, or homes. (And that's another story, too.) All this need is met with seemingly equal opportunity for volunteering with orphans there. In fact, the number of charitable organizations doing just that is staggering. The possibilities were inundating. (Oh, wonderful problem!)

But know this: I'm the kind of person that panics in large grocery-stores, let alone a WalMart or CostCo. In there it's like panic vs. claustrophobia vs. vertigo. Land where the aisles expand in every direction: forward and backward and upward and outward. They throb with their stacks of over-sized groceries and hardware, toys and office furniture, jewelry and electronics. What do I need here? 3 gallons of ketchup? A gold watch? A bushel of apples? A Chutes and Ladders board-game? A 6-pack of "The Road Less Traveled"? A 36-pack of canned tuna? Salted or unsalted? In water or oil? Or maybe just that coffin?

That's how researching volunteer-trip organizations in India was. Even once I narrowed down to Southern India, the myriad options seemed daunting. Plus, how long have they existed? What's their impact? Reputation? How much do they charge? How long to process applications? Do they offer two-week, four-week, six or eight week programs? Who do they use for host homes? Are they a British, American, German or French organization? Does that even matter? I'd tackle it.

Well, come last October, although buried amid the possibilities and in various stages of inquiries and applications, I still had to go to work.  And October in the fashion business means Stylemax Chicago.

Me checking out those paper beads. 

 

Stylemax is an apparel and accessory trade show held four times each year at the Merchandise Mart - the largest commercial building in the world. Each floor spans two city-blocks. And situated across from my booth on the south-east corner of that vast 7th floor sat Kristen Hendricks. Kristen Hendricks with her piles and strands of brightly-colored beads, some hanging from six-foot tall paper-mache trees, all surrounded with posters of beautiful, beaming African girls. This was no ordinary Stylemax vendor - and the photos were of no ordinary teenage girls.

These girls - victims of human trafficking - live in a home in Gulu where they are healing and recovering some of the love, joy, and innocence that they were robbed of at adolescence. These girls live in the Purse of Hope house.

Long story short: within 36 hours of meeting Kristen Hendricks, founder of Purse of Hope, I had purchased non-refundable tickets to Uganda. Departing in merely two weeks.

So, it was and wasn't a snap decision to go.

In form, certainly. 

In substance, not.

Kristen and I