Easy and impossible

Some things are so much harder in foreign country.

Cookies.
Dating- which was nearly impossible before seems highly improbable and futile here. (Ironically that was half the motivation and the circumstances of my introduction to this place) and the key rests with me… it is just buried at the moment. Might be time to start looking for it again.

Phone calls
Utilities bills
Doctor visits
Border crossings
Politics
Schedules- if they exist they don’t operate with the same concept as they do where I am from.
Rules (everything from classroom rules to social morays
Fundraising- I don't even know where to begin
Organizing- arg
Communicating.
Crossing the street- I risked my life three times crossing one street on my way home from school on Friday.
Ordering food in China (easy to order- never sure what you would get)
Making friends- it happens for sure, and with the most unlikely of people, but ever so slowly
Being understood

Then some things are easier too:
Movies- so cheap it is immoral not to go at least once a week.
Taxis- they come to your door when you call – less than three minutes.
House-cleaning (so easy I don’t do it- someone else does)
Flirting (could be easier if I were any good at it and not so uptight.)
Living in a fancy house (granite counter tops, wireless internet, balcony, pool, security guards.
Getting drunk (honestly is too easy everywhere and I might have given it up recently)
Transportation- I can walk to school, taxi or bus any where in the city, and for $100 get anywhere in the country within 2 -3 hours or so.
A suntan is almost guaranteed- you have to take serious steps to avoid one
Frustrations OR laughter but you have to chose one…
While being understood is difficult, Speaking is very easy. It is a culture of talking.

So some of the most basic things make me feel like an infant, things that I can no longer do for myself, or do very well used to be my strength.
So, I am here, again, living in another country. USA. China. Colombia. And life again is impossibly easy and staggeringly hard simultaneously. Living abroad is an adventure. One which, I apparently enjoy and thrive on because I keep finding myself, honestly putting myself here. How long does it take living abroad to not feel this way, to feel more at home in a foreign place than in the land of ones birth? How long until the number of things that are easy far out number and out weigh the things that are easy?

2.27.10

Get up. Paint a picture. Eat an egg. Write a story. Wash my feet. Chase the cat through the neighbor’s garden. Wash my feet again. Watch the ants traipse through the house in a winding path down the stairs, into the kitchen and up the doorframe out the front. I was delighted at watching them in the stairs… down- over-down-over-down. Something amusing about it beyond the initial frustration that they are there at all.

Take a nap. Paint another picture, not nearly as good. Walk to the store for butter and buy three things, forgetting the butter completely. Listen to music and have a friend try to teach you how to dance. Contemplate going out. Examine the ring your glass leaves on the table. Hold hands. Find a shoulder to rest your head on and call it a day.

Changes

Why is procrastination as deliciously rewarding as true work? It has to be a loop-hole in the universe.

"Everybody is changing and I don't feel the same."


I was so delighted this morning the rain fell heavy on the quieted city. The cool morning air greeted me and summoned me up. Begrudgingly I submitted. Slunk off to ready myself. The slow haze followed me like a light shadow. Over exposed. Under exposed. Double exposed.
When my spirit caught up with my body I was relieved to discover the fresh morning required that I wear a jacket. The first in months. What a relief.
Sweltering by mid-day but this morning was perfectly gloomy and dull.

Hello boys.

Time and Space.

Living abroad has taught me many things. Two years in China and nearly two years and counting in Colombia would certainly come with valuable cultural lessons, linguistic hurtles and gastronomic adventures. But more than that living abroad has taught me about where I come from, about who I really am and where I truly feel at home.

On a rainy afternoon, the first in months, I sit scrunched up, wedged between my bed and a side table that has become a comfortable spot for me and here sipping a latte I write. In many ways I am more American at this moment than I ever have been while in the United States. It is like being abroad gives me permission to really be American. When I am in my own country I am the traveler, the world wanderer, and therefore exotic, foreign, different and whether I am seen this way, exude this or am rebelling, it seems to be the general state of things. Yet, while abroad, there is very little I can do to mask where I am from. And here they have a vision of me well before I even speak. And no matter where else I have been or how un-American I feel in the states, here I am simply Americana. (and in China I was 老外 lǎo wài “foreign devil”). Do I crave the familiar, reminders of “home” the place I was born, is that why I seek out the familiar brands, find comfort in the luxury of imports, and behave more like the cliché I am beginning to resemble?

Living abroad has taught me two things about where I am from, and how significantly those things are intertwined with who I am. Time and space. These are such American concepts, so critical and essential to our way of life and you don’t realize it until you are out of our sphere. They are both so enforced that the idea that they are social constructs is impossible to fathom until you are drowning in a foreign cultural sea and these two fundamental elements like oxygen and gravity are removed.

Time and Space.
As upsetting as it is to be without the comforting structure these concepts provide in the north, I respect their absence or rather the alternative… not their absence. What is there in place of time?
What is there in the absence of space? There is closeness, contact and connection. In the US we have traded these things for personal space and individuality. We cling to these concepts of ourselves and have been raised in isolation to the point that we are uncomfortable with the most basic of human behaviors; Touch.
Time is another story all together. Of course time exists. We use it, measure it, we schedule; we double book. It is up, it is out; It heals all wounds. We save it; we waste it. It flies. It is money. We count on it, celebrate it and bemoan it. It can run out. It is good; it is bad. How could it not really exist at all? What a ridiculous question, of course it exists. It is tangible. We are ruled by it and consumed by it. We try to make the most of it.
Even In Shakespeare’s Hamlet:
Let us go in together,
And still your fingers on your lips, I pray.
The time is out of joint—O cursèd spite,
That ever I was born to set it right!
Nay, come, let's go together.
Hamlet Act 1, scene 5, 186–190 (Macrone, 2007).

So if it is out of joint it must be real. And to guarantee this we tease and make fun of those who aren’t slaves to this concept we hold so dear, those who don’t sacrifice themselves to it, who don’t betray themselves to worship at the altar. It is unsettling both to be in such a heathen world, but also mostly because I am beginning to question my own faith. Have I been worshiping a false idol all these years? Am I misguided when I try, futilely, to convert the heathens? Am I the one who is mistaken? What have I missed or passed over, neglected in order to honor this age-old fiction?

I know I have been defending my bubble, my space, fiercely keeping tenderness, love and affection at bay. Threatened by the slightest touch, reading into it, all the taboos of a conservative, rigid and misguided pious premise that migrated across the ocean 300 years ago, I have pushed myself away from the life that could sustain me, now getting most of the fundamental contact we all need from my cat. Comforting and welcome as it is, there is a serious problem with this evasion of the problem.

Entonces, has living abroad been good for me, has it changed me? Come hold my hand and we can take a walk while I will tell you all about it.


Macrone, Michael. "The time is out of joint." Brush Up Your Shakespeare. Cader Company, 1990. eNotes.com. 2007. 25 Feb, 2010

* Since I make my students do this all the time, I figured I could serve as a good example. Jajaja.

From where I sit

What a difference a day makes, 24 little hours…
“I felt like I had been looking for this place my whole life.”

From where I sit it seems impossible that there is pain and suffering, that there is a place on this earth that is cold, dark and bitter. But I know there is. From where I sit, it seems impossible that there can ever be a limit to love. But so often there is. From where I sit, the river looks clean and the air seems fresh. With my full belly, it seems that there can not be a hungry soul on this planet, but far too many are. From where I sit, on this balcony in the sun it seems that all things are newly born or pregnant and that nothing/ no one will die. Even as I write these words some one takes her last breathe.


Do you think you can tell?
Did you exchange for a walk on part in the war for a lead role in a cage?
Poignant question, although I have listened before, I have never heard these words.

From where I sit, my students are the most beautiful creatures on this planet. So bright, sharp and pure. So real, authentic and gentle.

From where I sit I know I can’t always be right. I could easily fall. This ledge is peligroso. But it is from here I have the best view and so I remain. The light cant reach those crouched in the shadows, So I climbed to the top, to the edge where the evening’s last whispers of day caress my skin on the wind and the light retreats as the shadows, the cloak of night crawls up my leg. The wind picks up, as if to say to all who will listen, “breath in the last, breath in the life, because this day is sliding away behind the western mountains that hold us in this bowl.” The trees are listening and the birds ride this last breath with dedication.

From where I sit, this day will never end, and even with each and every clue to the contrary, I soak up the reality that it is not over yet. I breath in my scent and rock out to every one of the last sounds of this day cambiando, undressing into the quiet darkness that is her true nature.

From where I sit it is all possible and even in the darkness the light shines from within. From where I sit I know I can’t always be right. But, I know that right now about most of it, I am. And that is all that matters.

Brownies & Intimidation.

Who knew it was more fun to bake brownies for yourself than for others? These are not for me, and although I usually consider myself a thoughtful person, one who enjoys giving to others, this baking brownies for other people business, honestly, sucks. Where is the reward, and the pleasure in that? I like to give, really I do. I delight in giving my time, energy, patience and love… I even like to cook for other people, but something about this seems wrong. While my students and my enemies might not view me in such a light, I often thinking of myself as generous and kind. I am honestly a bit surprised by my visceral and stubborn reaction.

Meanwhile, in idle boredom I peel the skin from my leg and scratch at nothing, thinking to a year from now and all the things I will do: And trying not to think of brownies or intimidation. It works.
And then it doesn’t.
Airline travel and D-day, sexual harassment and colonial reparations. Haiti’s orphaned children and the decided lack of stable family I have to offer one; All these things can’t quite distract me. Chocolate and soccer, unrequited love and sweltering heat; Distant helicopter blades beat the air in that unique way. But even the caress of an adoring cat’s tail can’t quiet my mind and there is only so much skin left on my legs to pick at.

Like billowing curtains in the wind, smells of someone else's brownies waft up the stair, barge into my room and demand attention. The honeymoon picture of my grandparents watches me, as if daring me to resist. And the alarm sounds. It is time.

My obliquity.

...So amazingly quickly times can change. Feelings like a wave, crashing over me, and clearing the beach, sweeping inland destroying everything in its path. Structures. Trees. And faith. Comfort. Confidence. And self.
Just some simple words strung together in a battery of what might be seen as a conversation.
Like the tide coming in.
Sweeping my feet out from under me. Losing my footing is a mild way of putting it. The world shrank, collapsed in on me to the bubble of space between the two of us. Separated only by a desk. A merciful desk. My hands clasped together tight. Grasping one another for support, as a tether.
Off kilter.
Knocked me out of orbit.
Rocked my obliquity, (my Axial tilt); I wonder how many degrees I am off.
Will my seasons still change?
Who knows; 23.5° did wonders for the earth in our solar system, as it might do for me too.
Perhaps, maybe everything can be solved with astronomical metaphors, math mathematical equations and Gelatin (Jell-o.)

Sunday Morning. Kisses and Licks

Mercy, mercy me.
Things aint what they used to be.
I am king of the sharks. Soy el rey de la mar Tiburon.
el que te come a besos.

The pot is on the stove bubbling way, the smell wafting out onto the porch to entice the neighbors. The chairs have been drawn and the cat is curled up in an abandoned sandal. The wind caresses like a silent lover while dancing in between the trees. And the house is quiet. Except for the tapping of keys, there is nothing. The cloud bank tucks the city in for an afternoon nap. The birds rest from the heat in the shade, the boy next door has laid down his accordion. Kisses and licks. The grass bends but not enough to be deemed blown. The bamboo sways. Kisses and licks.

Mercy, mercy me. Things aint what they used to be. Where did the blue sky go?
Sunday morning, praise the dawning
I've got a restless feeling by my side.
Soy el rey de la mar Tiburon.

The cat stretches and yawns. Slowly blinks and sniffs the air before she settles down again. The pot on the stove needs to be stirred before it burns.

Four

Part ONE:
I traveled the world to discover that I wanted to live in one place and to settle in the green mountains of Vermont in the place of my birth. I learned that having a garden, being close to the land and sitting by the rivers edge with a cold beer on a hot afternoon was the most delicious sensation and was as satisfying as rambling for hours on countless buses to remote regions of the globe. I bought goats, like you do, and set up to make a life. I invested in a home and a place. I threw myself into realizing a dream I hadn’t realized I had.
After four years of being on three continents and traveling more than living, I found myself planting a seed in the most familiar and yet unlikely place, home. Coming to find that is what I had wanted. Those four years gave me the confidence to try a new adventure of staying still. I found that settling down wasn’t the same as settling. Amazingly, or amazingly unremarkably, it took me four months to up and move again. With my last dollar having been spent on making this life for myself in the woods with a view of a remarkable valley, I parted with it and with six days notice I up and moved to South America.
I sold my goats, like you do. Packed up the life. Abandoned the garden I had planted, to be harvested by someone else. I kissed my friends goodbye, drank as much of my wine as I could stand, and put the valuable tools I had gathered into four bags. Four seems to be the magic number here. Shaking I got onto a plane and wondered if this new expression of my impetuous adventuring was a good idea or just another escape. Again, four days later, that plane landed and brought me back to a place I had left weeping two years earlier, sure that I would never return.
I am back, but the place and time that broke my heart then is gone too. It is a new place now. A new life and a new perspective. Along with the city, I have been reborn into a revised scenario. Where I am independent, blazing my own path down familiar streets. The cast of characters and the purpose has changed for the better. They call me Ms. and I love every one of them. Teaching is what I am made for, and with each experience I have I am more sure of it.

So I am nearly south of the equator and February is warm and has brought the rain back to Colombia. With the rain something else is falling on my heart and washing away the fear and doubt that had settled like dust in the corners of my life. With any construction you have to kick up the dirt, dig a hole and tear everything down before you are ready to build it up again… so we are in the reconstruction stage. Letting the rain bring life back to the land y a mi tambien.

I built one life in four months and left it. I have planted another garden here and with less than six months on the ground I think the fruits of this labor will be delicious. They are already.

The Shovel

“What did I tell you about that shovel? You start diggin’ somebody is bound to get hurt; more than likely it’ll be you.”
I knew even before I heard his words echo in my head. “Don’t you think I miss you too?” Honestly, I hadn’t. But like sun on a frozen window, I melted and turned all pink; glowed. Shovel in hand I was ready to dig to China even through the burning core. But just as quickly a cold breeze swept up and clouded the sky. Stopped, almost in time, shovel in hand frozen over again.

So susceptible. And maybe already right where I need to be, vulnerable and bare. But Not Open. And so not where I need to be. Standing there in the relative darkness of my mind, I clutch the wooden handle, warn smooth by endless work before me, but not mine. Almost clutching for balance. Slowly replacing each of my fingers one at a time as if I can revise my position in life simply by getting a better grip on this one handle.

If only I had a grip.

Slowly, one finger at a time, from the bottom up. And with each fingers return to the worn wood hewn by the sweat and effort of unknown others before me, I seem closer. Entering a fissure in time. Where all is quiet and my breath echoes like a war drum in my ears and the empty white space. So this is what a shovel looks like.

There in the void, weightless besides my own thoughts, time no longer existed or ceased to exist. All was silent; even the absence of silence was quiet… and yet it was like I could hear every bird that had ever sung, all at once. In Harmony and unison. A breeze swayed me and I realized that what I had been clutching so tightly was not there even to begin with. My hands closed around nothing. Staring into my empty palms I felt a relief coming from the momentary panic spinning out of control in my internal universe. Nothing is more simple than an empty hand… an open hand. Why is that so difficult to see?

When grasping, clutching, reaching it seems reasonable to never look at ones palms, even when your hands are open your gaze is fixed on the destination, the object. Mostly my eyes have been closed as well. Palms. Eyes. Heart.

It is time to dig, but not with a goal or China or anything specific and not with such a tight grip that I can’t feel the solid tool in my hand. With too much force I will never unearth anything worthwhile. The blister and splinters mark the path and are part of the journey. But they are not the goal or the key.

Maybe it is about how to hold all things: not so tightly, with tenderness and the knowledge that the best things cant be held too long.

And there are some things which are buried because they are dead not because they are hidden or lost. Treasure is worth digging for, but a corpse is better left where it lies. With a fresh lung’s breath, I open my hands, raise my palms and start digging. Maybe to get hurt, but not from holding on too tightly.