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From Before Christmas


I am constantly relearning precisely how much I don't know. I came here with grandiose ideas of what it would mean to live abroad, immerse myself in a culture vastly different from my own, to do a job I'd never done before. I was in love with the idea of Peace Corps service - the challenge, the adventure, the opportunity for personal expansion and growth. Service matters. The world is much bigger than my solitary existence. It is my duty to find my way to contribute and follow through. But after a year of service, I will tell you, life here is excessively... normal. I have my routines. I have my habits, my preferences, my "places" and my "people." I have good days and bad days. And life is as full of pain and pleasure as ever. It's 6:09PM. The sun's painted the sky my favorite shade of orange as it drops behind the mountains. There are palm fronds blocking the light from reaching through my windows, which are very dirty and in need of a thorough cleaning. I've had a box of newspaper sitting against the back wall for weeks, awaiting this task I haven't yet accomplished simply because window cleaner is expensive, and I prefer ice cream. I'm sitting in front of the fan, and the little Christmas tree Marianne sent me glows a little brighter each minute as the sky fades to pale pink, the last light of the day slowly slipping away.

At last I am writing in the glow of my iPad screen - a far cry from the candle-lit evenings I imagined before coming to Thailand. There is no escaping the world and its progress. Living in a "Posh Corps" country has taught me that. While it is no longer weird to flush my toilet with a bucket, I have also sat in Thai movie theatres that out-glamor the theatres back home in Colorado. I am perpetually losing the battle against mold and mosquitos and fire ants, and that's finally okay. But I have not yet managed a smooth transition back into this life following a foray into the urban world of flush toilets and air conditioning. Despite this difficulty, I want to say I've adjusted well; but in all honesty, these small changes in lifestyle - in living conditions - aren't what make this experience difficult. Fear, embarrassment, judgement, and longing make this hard. The fear of failure: failing to fit in, failing my coworkers, students, and Peace Corps staff, of simply taking the wrong bus. Embarassment: my broken and grammatically imperfect Thai - an ever-evolving link that has, too often, broken in the face of forced conversation - mispronounced words, and entire rooms laughing at me; these are challenges I never fully considered. Judgement: of those around me who are impatient with my limited communication, of my fellow volunteers when they've failed to meet my expectations of the kind of people I expected to find in the Peace Corps - a reflection of the work I am still doing on my Self - and all of this, coming back around to judging my Self - an imperfect human - now confronting my reflection daily in the way I choose to interact with everyone around me, now healing old wounds and finding a peace I've never known. Longing: mostly for Chipotle, chocolate milk shakes... a banter session with my dad and brother in my dad's living room, an all-night conversation with my best friend, a drive though the mountains, all the way to the deserts of Utah, the slice of my skis carving fresh tracks across an empty mountainside, my bed, a hug. The heat, the bugs and reptiles and amphibians in my house, the work it takes to maintain a livable home environment are all inconveniences I have learned to live - and live contentedly - with. What I've realized is, I've struggled with many of the same things here that I struggled with back home, and those are the battles that have been the most difficult. And while I've fought many of these battles before, the isolation of living alone - in a community where language creates a more solid barrier than any physical structure, firmly between me and genuinely intimate connection with any of the people around me - has forced this inner turmoil to the forefront of my attention. The isolation imposed by this language barrier that has forced me to listen - not only to the people around me, but much more openly to my Self. I have listened to entire conversations I don't understand. I have listened to the ramble of my own voice slipping desperately from my mouth like liquid tumbling from a tipped jug in clumsy hands. I have listened to the silence that fills a room when no one is quite sure of what to say, and to the crackle of anticipation as we all sift through our vocabulary for shared words to fill the silence that isn't exactly awkward, but is still uncomfortable. There is little more terrifying than leaving behind the place where you know who you are in pursuit of the person you hope to become. But as time passes, the fear, the embarrassment, the judgement, the longing, they feel less like alarm bells firing through my veins. They feel more like... rust spots - like scars, like stains - parts of me I can't scrub away. Worn bits, happily coexisting amid my ever-morphing chameleon skin. I am different. I am not the same person I was when I stepped off the tarmac onto Thai soil. And yet, so much of me is still that person. I am learning there is no "Peace Corps Experience." Every Peace Corps journey is as unique as each individual who chooses to take it. We come for the challenge. I've found a challenge vastly different than what I'd imagined. I'm staying, because I think being here has made me softer, yet tougher. More affluent, but less outspoken. Wiser only for realizing how much I have yet to learn about the world. It's dark now. And I'm battling the flying bugs that have made their way into my house, attracted to the light. I don't have a profound conclusion for you. I think, I will probably never have a profound conclusion for you. I'm just a woman with a lot of love to give and a desire to pursue the unconventional in all of the places both of those may lead me.


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