With the holidays upon us, Ryan and my First Anniversary, Fisher’s 2nd birthday and my parents thirty-something-nth anniversary, this was a really tough stint. The language is sitting in, but some mornings, after waking up at 2am to donkeys and 4am to the urge to pee and 6am to the sheep and roosters and dog fights and children crying and women working and me coughing (the winds have brought about some pretty serious colds, flus and red-sand-colored ick), its nearly impossible to be focused on the lingual stylings of Brigo country here in Mali.
That is, of course, until, I find myself grinning into the perfect face of a week old baby goat. Prancing amongst dirt and chickens or pouncing upon nothing; being precious and perfect and, strangely, a reminder that we’re all innocent and vulnerable and capable.
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