Author: Vivian Bikulege

God’s time is always near. He set the North Star in the heavens; He gave me the strength in my limbs; He meant I should be free.       – Harriet Tubman to Ednah Dow Cheney, New York City, circa 1859             When Harrier Tubman died in 1913, she told the people in the room with her, “I go to prepare a place for you.” At this very moment in time, Beaufort is hard at work preparing a special place on Craven Street to remember and honor an American treasure.

Recently, something strangely interesting dawned on me. It’s this. There are times, by choice, circumstance, or accident, we reencounter the paths we have been on with people we no longer have in our lives. Is this too obvious? It’s a bit of a revelation to me.

I am not in my element. Or, maybe I am. For the next six weeks, I host a small group of women studying the signs and wonders of Jesus’ ministry on earth. Keep reading please. This isn’t a column on conversion. Or maybe it is. Mine.

These days, my friends and loved ones slide down both sides on the arc of the political rainbow, and I am a better person because of them. Without an array of conservative, moderate, and liberal thinkers in my inner circle, I would not have the ability to hold the debate inside of my head to ferret out what I hold true, what I struggle to understand, and what I cannot accept. Political discussions wake me up and remind me of my freedoms under our Bill of Rights, and my ease in taking them for granted growing up in America.

I remember sitting in a Queen Anne chair, having a cup of Nescafé coffee, and looking out of my hotel window in Luxembourg City. From the sixth floor of the Grand Hotel Cravat, looking down on Constitution Square, the view is in direct alignment with the Monument of Remembrance, a war memorial to the citizens of Luxembourg who volunteered to fight in both World Wars and Korea.

On March 9, I finished the Parris Island Sprint Triathlon. Key word: Finished. However, it is the journey to the end of the race at the heart of the experience. A cliche I know, the journey being the better part of the destination, but it is the better part of the story.

Listen, listen… winter’s gone. Finches whistle, “Here’s the sun!” Pop, pop, bulbs sprout. Leaves grow, flowers shout. ‘Listen, Listen,’ Phillis Gershator & Alison Jay

I’ve been thinking a lot about transformation. My own. It is my chosen word of the new year. Past attempts at forming myself around a single word or focus have included balance, clarity, and inspiration. I’m not sure I have ever been successful, but I strove for what I needed at the time. This year, something inside of me wants to see great change, and I wonder if it won’t be the small changes that will end up making the biggest differences.

I hate needles. Not knitting or embroidery needles. The kind you stick into skin and veins, shoulders and buttocks. I must be afraid of them or of pain. Anticipation of blood tests, flu shots, or Novocain, coupled with the rub of a cotton ball and fumes of alcohol, causes the blood to drain from my head and I pass out. The medical term for my fainting is vasovagal syncope.

Poem & photo by Vivian Bikulege