September 25, 2013
It’s hard to believe that I’ve been here for almost
three weeks already. Exactly three weeks
ago I was running around the house getting last-minute things taken care of and
trying to conceal the worry and fear that was beginning to seep in to my
carefully put-together attitude. Three
weeks ago I was terrified about setting out for this journey, and three weeks
later, I’m still nervous and worried about what’s to come. On Monday we move out of our group residence
and in with our host families. We got to
spend last Sunday afternoon with our host families, and while it helped ease a
great deal of tensions, it also made me aware of how little I knew of both
Maninkekan and French, and how overwhelming it is to be in an environment where
nothing is familiar. Throughout all of
this, though, there is a strange comfort that has begun to grow within me. I’m still trying to figure out where it has
come from and why being in totally over my head is comforting, because it
really isn’t comfortable when you don’t know how to sit, don’t know how to eat,
don’t know what to say, don’t know how to say it, don’t know where to go, don’t
know what’s going on, don’t know how to act, don’t know anything. It’s not comforting; it’s awkward and
overwhelming and the minutes move so slowly and I have no idea what is expected
of me, much less what is normal, and I just wish I knew, for once, what was
going on or what was being said or what people wanted me to do, and yet I’ve
found a weird comfort in all of it. Because
when you don’t know what’s going on outside, it’s really important to
understand what’s going on inside, what I’m thinking and feeling, how I’m doing
in this strange new world.
And I mean this in the most beautiful and
complimentary way. I love the
strangeness, love the beauty that challenges my idea of beauty, love the work
that makes me understand and appreciate difference, love the difference that
opens my eyes to similarity, to humanity.
I didn’t expect this semester to be easy, but I also didn’t expect it to
be this hard. Yet, like the gardens
outside our compound where the vegetables and plants are growing with no rhyme
or reason to me, there is some kind of order, some kind of pattern that makes
sense to someone, even if I’ll never know.
But it’s there, and even not knowing what it is, just knowing that it
exists is enough. The comfort that has
strangely found its way into my time here may also be like that. I don’t know where it came from, it’s
certainly not from the food (though it is delicious) or the daily activities
(if you need water, the well is right over there) or the weather or the
personal hygiene practices (toilet paper? It doesn’t exist) or the familiar
faces (ha) or the language (haha) or the classes or the sounds (was that a
rooster?) or the sights or the smells (incense or burning trash pile?), but
it’s there none the less. And even if
I’m not sure where it’s coming from, it sure makes me smile at the end of the
day, because I zip-up my bug tent and know Papa’s right there with me.
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