when he sang "can you promise me you'll still love what you loved when you left? can you promise me you'll still have what you had when you left?"
My answer's no.
This week I am struck by how predictable my life has become in such a short amount of time. I wake up every morning, water the plants, get ready for work, go to work, have engaging conversations with my coworkers over lunch, come back from work, make dinner, and paint/respond to one of my million voicemails/check BBC and my email. I miss my days of bouncing around Chiang Mai, exploring beautiful temples, eating mangoes everyday. I miss long afternoons with Pi Wara and Pi Jim. I miss being surrounded by people who shared my experiences. And a few minutes ago, when I put a load of laundry in the washing machine, I had a strange wave of homesickness come over me - to be walking down a dirt path in Musekee that would lead me to a small creek that was just big enough to wet, lather, and rinse my clothing. I miss the days when things were simpler, there were more conducive circumstances for silence, and the surrounding culture valued hospitality and community.
I don’t want to say that I’m entirely happy to be in Harrisburg; I like it here, yes. I like that being in this country and being in this rather central location means that I get to see Katie often, I got to see Kelly get married last weekend, I get to spend time with Danielle, Laura passed through last week and Elyse and Jeff are coming on Saturday and Christy will be coming in the next few days and I’ll be meeting with Megan and Meg Jones next week. I like that I will go camping and reune with SSTers in DC to hear Shane Claiborne speak in a couple of weeks, spend time with family at Spruce Lake, and be a part of Danielle’s wedding. But in all of the fun and unexpected busyness of my life here, I don’t feel like I’m here.
If you know me well, you know that I want to be fully present and involved in the lives of the people I’m with and not be stuck on memories or things of the past. Simultaneously, I just want to be with refugees. And I don’t want their faces to get fuzzy in my mind or their stories to get any less heart-breaking. And, for once in my life, I don’t want to fix what’s broken in me.
So, friends, readers, strangers, too, glean from this wordy post: I’m uncomfortable and easily frustrated/consistently restless in the days that are these. I don't love the things I loved when I left. I don't have the things I had when I left.
