The Seeker

August 27^th, 2019

4:19 P.M. Hastings, NE United States

From my time in Cambodia to my time leaving for Uruguay, I will have been in the United States for exactly 1 month. During that time, I’ve done speaking engagements, weekly reports, doing odd tasks here and there, as well as several attempts at packing to keep busy. But for the most part, I’ve been unsure about what to do with my free time. It’s more than I usually have, and it's something that definitely leaves me feeling bored. So along with finishing How to Get Away with Murder on Netflix (which I HIGHLY recommend), I’ve been reading a lot of books, one of which caught the attention of my scatterbrained mind. Wild, by Cheryl Strayed, was published in 2012 and was quite popular after its release. However, due to my previously busy schedule, I am just now understanding why it was so successful. 

If unfamiliar with her story, in 1995 and at the age of 22, Cheryl found herself an absolute wreck after the death of her mother, her own failed marriage, and a family that was crumbling around her. Without experience or training, she decided to hike the Pacific Crest Trail, which spans over 1,100 miles along the West coast of the United States. She decided to do this by herself over the course of a few months as a way to "get her life back” and heal.

Without spoiling what she had to face, I couldn’t help but think, “Wow, this is absolutely crazy! How did she survive that?” And then a few moments later, “This sounds like something I would do.” And I think I would. Or I would like to think that someday, with hopefully a little more training and experience, I could do something as wild (pardon the pun) as this.

Hopefully I can avoid the stream of unfortunate events that Cheryl had to experience in order to get her to this point, but I understand her desire to just go. It’s how I feel right now. It’s how I’ve felt before now. I’ve been talking with other GMFs preparing to leave, and all of them, while they are excited, they also express how nervous they are; they are sad and frightened to leave what’s behind them.

Maybe it makes me strange, but I don’t feel that.

I’ve got nothing but excitement. Maybe that will change when I board the plane in two days, but I’m simply not nervous. I know I’m going to struggle, especially with the language, but I can’t wait for that. Of course, there are several things for which I feel unprepared: money, packing, saying goodbye to people, and the daunting feeling that I’m always forgetting something. But even if I were given more time before my departure, I would still feel unprepared, so I’m not worried about that. More time isn’t going to prepare me; it’s just going to make me wait for something I’m so unbelievably ready to do right now.

As I was reading this book and finding similarities between our lives, I came across a conversation Cheryl remembers having with her mother a few weeks after she began her long hike:

“I was a terrible believer in things, but I was also a terrible nonbeliever in things. I was as searching as I was skeptical. I didn’t know where to put my faith, or if there was such a place, or even precisely what the word faith meant, in all of its complexity. Everything seemed to be possibly potent and possibly fake. ‘You’re a seeker,’ my mother had said to me when she was in her last week, lying in the bed in the hospital, ‘like me’” (134).

I think I’m a seeker, too. I’m not sure what I’m going to find, but I can’t wait to figure it out.

  

In the Bardo

August 1^st, 2019

5:29 P.M. Hastings, NE United States

It’s been a strange last few days. I’ve traveled back to the United States before I leave again in 4 weeks to Montevideo, Uruguay, and I feel isolated, physically and mentally.

Let me explain.

For the last 3 weeks, I’ve spent literally every moment with 50 incredible individuals from all over the world. After learning about their lives and why they chose the same path as me, I’m in awe. I’m so impressed by all of them that I question as to why I was chosen to be a part of this group. Every single person has something remarkable about them. How do you get that many incredible people in one room together? We became a family unit. We ate every meal together, we sat in long sessions together, and we traveled out to the provinces of Cambodia together. We were never without one another. And we all had a roommate as well, so believe me when I say, we were NEVER by ourselves.  

As an extrovert, I loved this. As a learner, I loved this. And when I woke up in my bed in Nebraska a few days ago, I felt uneasy. I walked out and it was so quiet. I walked around my house wanting to see people, but there was no one home. Even my dog was at the groomer getting a haircut. I was literally alone. The next day I went out to run errands and I kept imagining that I was seeing some of the people I spent so much time with in Cambodia. I’d see their faces, do a double-take, then realize it wasn’t them. They were in a different time zone, either sleeping or carrying on with their own lives.

I didn’t think I was away long enough to experience reverse culture shock, but apparently being surrounded by such a close community (even for a short amount of time) is enough to bring it in full force.  

(If you don’t know what reverse culture shock is or have never experienced it, see this link: https://www.marquette.edu/abroad/reentry-reverse-culture-shock.shtml )

I feel like I’ve been living in this middle space. I’m not fully in the United States, but I’m not completely in Cambodia either; it’s a bardo of sorts. My body is here, but my mind is there. I can feel something new beginning, but right now I’m just sad. I’m still calling, texting, and using every form of social media to talk with the many people that became my family, knowing that in a few short weeks our communication will stop and I won’t see most of them ever again. We can’t help it. It’s just reality. But it’s a hard pill to swallow.

Every single person I talk to says the same thing.

“I miss you.”

“Are you doing okay?”

“Do you miss everyone as much as I do?”

“I feel like I’m in this space of in between."

"I don’t know what to do with myself.”

“Love and miss you!”

Part of me feels guilty for feeling this way. Am I allowed to feel this? It was only 3 weeks. How is it going to be after I live in Uruguay for 2 whole years? (I don’t even want to think about that!)

Then I hear my friend Elma’s voice in my head: “We had a great time together and so many good conversations. We’re not robots. It’s okay to feel.” (I foresee there being several more words of wisdom coming from Elma in future blog posts.)

Will we get over it with time? Yes. But it doesn’t mean that it’s still not difficult. But I think sometimes we as humans figure that if we move on as soon as possible then it will be easier to keep that happy memory with us without being sad about it. I want to advise anyone reading this to stop doing that. Listen to Elma. It’s okay to feel. It’s okay to be sad that something good is over. I want you to take what you feel and use it to create new spaces of goodness.

Grab ahold of the good you find. Keep it. Use it to recognize that goodness in other places. It’s easy to think we won’t find it again. But it does pop up. I promise. Time helps if we’re willing to work with it.

Right now, I’m still sad. But I’m letting myself be sad. I’ve been here before, and I’ll be here again. Because although I may struggle to have breakfast without 17 other people surrounding me, or I’m missing the fact that I don’t get to hear 13 different languages being spoken every day, I know that the people that helped me feel this sadness are helping others feel joy. At this very moment they are sharing their gifts and what they’ve learned with so many others, and that gives me enough happiness to be okay.