Improving Health, Nutrition and Population Outcomes in Sub-Saharan Africa: The Role of the World Bank (Sub-Saharan Africa and the World Bank)

Trans-national and Virtual Activities (TAs and VAs) ยท Networking 2nd Announcement: A Centenary of Astrophysical Jets: Observation, Theory & Future Prospects and small scale jet; Large scale radio jets (observation & theory) to Manchester on Monday 22nd July, or even the morning of Tuesday.

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March-April Download Now. Jan-Feb Download Now. September-October Download Now. Nov-December Download Now. I looked up at the ceiling. I tried not to fall in love with Luke, my white-collar hacker from the South who mined cryptocurrency, wore flannel shirts, and sometimes grew the beginnings of a soft, blond beard that I felt when we kissed, his face between my palms.

He lived in a yurt on a mountaintop vineyard hidden by miles of thick redwoods. It took ninety minutes to reach him: there was a thin dirt road where the black bull escaped its fence; a gate with a chain; and the forked curve of the Eel River. I watched as he fixed things.

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I watched him lift my small daughter into his arms across the clearing and wondered what they were saying to one another as he pointed into the darkening valley, where twilight fog sank through the forest. She resembled Luke more than she did her own father; strangers must have believed we were a family on afternoons in town when she held our hands to walk between us. Our life together was woodstoves and lofts, claw-foot tubs and grafted fruit trees. Wild turkeys in the compost. Moss on rough porch steps and the sound of them bending under our weight. Brambles and a shy bobcat in the ferns.

Rain on yurt canvas. Bleached bee boxes in winter sunlight. Rows of grapevines.

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Sprouted potatoes planted some cold afternoon on our knees. The cellar full of pumpkins and straw bales, where we took the temperature of nascent wine. His yellow cat tiptoeing in fresh snow. My lover chopping wood, or brewing coffee, or waking in the night to add another log to glowing embers. Maybe our own wedding in an orchard someday. When I finally understood what was happening, it was too late. At night, lying awake in that sleigh bed, I listened for the sound of his truck tires on gravel. Each time he returned, he promised to never go again, a thing I wanted to be truer than all others.

I wanted to begin once more from the start, to hear his voice again for the first time, to see his face. I gained thirty pounds and gave myself micro bangs that got shorter and shorter until a friend confiscated my scissors. I thought everything was my fault; that I could mend Luke, or us; that I needed to communicate better, to be more patient, to convince him to see a therapist.

It was like trying to keep a man who was sometimes a ghost. It seems stupid now, but I held on for two years, because when it was good, it was so good we believed it would always be that way.

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I was ashamed. I took the photos off the wall. I fucked a German firefighter who spanked me. For days afterward the sound of sirens evoked images of rough sex. I packed. I was going home. I was weird and awkward. I had inexplicable anxiety.

I wanted wide-open, rugged landscapes; bareback Appaloosa horses with rope halters; and poems. It was changed. It was ours. In one of my favorite memories of my mother, she comes home late from a conference smelling like makeup and smiling. She wakes me just to give me a set of Beatrix Potter books, where the animals talk and go on foolhardy adventures.

The books are colorless and all the same. They fit together inside a tiny box, side by side. Yet the women in my family have subtle, complicated relationships to each other. Before my tenth birthday I was diagnosed with an autoimmune disease.

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But who was that other daughter? Really it was the lack of malice that cut me, because she said it simply, like it was already acknowledged fact. We were all doing the best we knew how. We were winging it. We still are. To belong anywhere is messy. And she was both right and wrong: I was changed. Sickness taught me about mortality and time, which is a kind of equation balanced by mystery. It gave as much as it took. We are brittle and break, or we deepen to encompass pain; to draw a circle around it, around ourselves; to be more than we were before it came.

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This is the strange alchemy of loss and love. This is grace.

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After Luke I was not OK , not for months. He was just a boy. It was about more than that. It was about failure and the poverty of single motherhood. It was about what I was supposed to be, in contrast to what I was.