Bend, don't break

I was g-chatting with a friend who’s about to leave for Africa on a year-long fellowship the other day. Our conversation followed an increasingly well-known outline: festering self-doubt, anxiety, stress and feelings of being incredibly overwhelmed just getting through your pre-departure to do list and saying your goodbyes. Questions about whether this is the right thing. Questions about where we’ll be next year. Questions about what kind of lifestyle we really want. And I wondered, do these kind of questions consume everyone, or just us expat types who can’t seem to sit still and are seeking out the next challenge, responding to the next natural disaster. I have to imagine that these thoughts plague the minds of most people my age, they just manifest differently. Don’t women about to embark on motherhood, or men who are taking on new jobs for the good of their families, don’t they all struggle with these existential questions? Don’t we all make sacrifices to do what we do? Maybe it’s just easier for the likes of me to contemplate these things endlessly because there’s nothing tying me down. I have the available mental space to sit around wondering if I’m fulfilled enough. But I also have to ask, do I really want my job to define me? Shouldn’t it be the other way around?

I’m not gonna lie. This transition has been a bit of a bruiser. Maybe it’s my age. The things that excited me about travelling the world and doing development work at 23 just don’t get my engines revved like they used to. Perhaps I just have a bad case of Africa fatigue. It’s the same old frustrations, new country. And I wonder if it’s that particular element that seems to be driving me into these uncontrollable spirals of self-doubt. You knew what you were getting yourself into, so why lug around a bad case of the doom and glooms? I will say I’m a phenomenally lucky women that I have support from far-reaching corners of the globe. I have my amazing parents and siblings who have heard it all before, yet never fail to give me encouraging words. I have friends who have suffered through the same questions and lived the same dreams and have found themselves standing at the same crossroads. Knowing you’re not alone in the process certainly helps, and just feeling love and compassion from people who know you well and know your patterns even better.

The constant renegotiations are exhausting. The ping pong brain. The self-doubt. The questions. I realized today (with a lot of help from my friends) that I just need to let go. Not be so damn hard on myself. Allow this time to pass without overanalyzing the extreme highs and lows I’ll inevitably feel for the next few months. Allow myself to sit in whatever I need to sit in, but don’t wallow in it. Dust myself off, try again tomorrow. Seek small victories. Appreciate the relationships I’m building. Move forward, little by little, day by day. And eventually, those nagging feelings will subside and I’ll wake up one day and everything will feel ok. Better than ok, even. There will be the slightest shift in the universe, the subtle turning of a corner, and the way we view things will be transformed, ever so mildly. And you’ll recognize that you are good again. That familiar feeling of strength will replace the familiarity of doubt. Resilience will substitute for despair. Peace will recover from turmoil. I very much look forward to that day, and until then, will just keep swimming through mud.

The Space Between

This month has been a lot about me coming to terms with being back in Africa, and being comfortable in that space. Much of the adjustment is second nature at this point. The fishbowl stares when I walk down the street; fumbling through local language; tolerating the heat and unforgiving sun; meeting new people and seeking harmony in beliefs and experience; navigating public transportation. And being mindful of my expectations, leading to the ever-forgiving lessons of: Patience. Tolerance. Acceptance. Nothing in Africa happens quickly. Nothing. I should know better by now, I’m fully aware of this… but I have learned that just by acknowledging the difficulties of a situation, or even predicting potential pitfalls doesn’t make working through them any easier.

I have never consumed so much tea. I’m not even entirely convinced that I like tea, but it takes up roughly 45 minutes of my seemingly endless nine hour work day. As a dear friend noted this week, this period of adjustment feels a bit like swimming through mud. I sleep ridiculous amounts. Nap at lunch, nap after work, in bed by 9:30pm. I make lists. Compulsive, overly-detailed lists. Small tasks that will make me feel remotely better about my daily existence. Many days these efforts prove fruitless, others are slightly more successful. And I start over again the next day. I have no other choice. 1. Shave head: today, this took roughly two hours for an otherwise effortless ten minute activity. Solution: take off the guard and avoid sun at all costs until any hair grows back. Awesome. 2. Check email: uh, no comment. 3. Laundry: while the guesthouse maintains a washing machine, its functionality is quite the mystery. Some days, the cycle finishes in a reasonable 45 minutes. Other days, three-and-a-half hours later and it’s still stuck in spin cycle. 4. Finish 750 page book (that you started yesterday). 5. Nap. 6. Eat Ramen noodles. 7. Revamp failed exercise routine. 8. Drink another cup of tea. 9. Pluck eyebrows. 10. Paint fingernails. 11. Watch six hours of Glee. 12. Take a shower. These are the things that are currently consuming my schedule. It’s discouraging at best but I just keep telling myself its temporary. It’s the adjustment period.

Three weeks after arriving at work, I am still patiently awaiting permanent housing, driving lessons, Swahili classes, finance tutorials, and basically any remotely useful activity that doesn’t make me feel like I’m getting fatter by the mere act of sitting at my desk. I love my colleagues. I am inspired by the work that we do. Honestly. But right now I just don’t feel like an asset, like I’m contributing, like I’m being utilized in any way that makes me feel valued and excited to show up to work every day. And that’s the hard part…the waiting. I know sometime very soon, I’ll turn that corner and suddenly be swamped with project proposals, site visits, and meetings. And I very much anticipate that time. It’s the space between that’s the killer. The big downer. The self-doubter. Because if I’m not here for the work, what the hell am I doing here? All the sacrifice wouldn’t be worth the trouble. And all those seeds of doubt would blossom into trees. And then where would I be?

Tilt-A-Whirl

Whirlwind, whirlwind, whirlwind. It’s incredible to think about where I was a week ago, and the week before that, and the two weeks before that. More amazing is our capacity to shift from place to place, city to city, mental space to mental space, and come out seemingly unscathed on the other side (a bit bruised and battered nonetheless). In the past month, I left my beloved city of New Orleans, spent a week soaking up the comfort and loving space of family and home, spent an exhausting week of fellowship training in Baltimore, and sigh…here I am again, on the continent of Africa. Don’t get me wrong. This month was riddled with mixed emotions: fluctuating between being robotically numb to desperately heavy-hearted and trying to manage my ever-changing feelings of doubt, guilt, excitement, sadness, and acceptance. I guess it’s easier to coast through difficult transitions, as a survival mechanism to allow us space to adapt and breathe, hoping that a few weeks or months down the road, we’ll actually be able to take a deep breath and process what the hell just happened to us.

Leaving New Orleans was hard, but in a really affirming sort of way. I was feeling conflicted about leaving the city, felt like I was abandoning it in some strange way, not sure I was ready to walk away from my life there and the energy and comfort that physical space gave me. But as a friend recently counseled, it’s pretty incredible that I am at a point in my life where I’m choosing between two loves, and that I have multiple places on this glorious planet that make me feel that I belong. Granted, it didn’t stop my mind from ricocheting; recognizing that I am quite possibly just one of those people that always misses what I don’t have.

Time spent with family created a generous space for reflection, allowing me to digest my departure from New Orleans and my impending move back to the continent of Africa. It was days of creeping fear and tugging guilt of leaving my family and once again facing the unknown. It was the joy of welcoming a new niece into this world. There was the purity of spending time with my nieces at the pool, or sharing meals with my parents, or laughing over holiday memories with extended relatives. I felt heavy-hearted at times, wondering if I was making the right choice, wondering if I could continue this kind of life.

And just like that, I am in Tanzania, where adjusting to day to day life seems almost secondary, natural. And without much effort, your day to day existence settles in, and you realize that while this lifestyle polarizes the world you knew in the dirty south, it is still your life, and you are pretty content and familiar and comfortable with this space, too. And maybe it’s a blessing to realize that after all the questions and worry and fear, you come to the conclusion that quite possibly your quest for balance can be achieved in more places than just one…that quite possibly you’ve reached a point in your life where the world you left is equally appreciated to the world you’ve just arrived in. Perhaps that’s happiness. Perhaps it’s peace. Perhaps it’s just your home away from home for this moment in time.

The Union on Union Street

Burlington, VT is one of those places where your preconceptions and initial impressions are matched perfectly: spotlessly clean streets, beer-making hippies, sporty young people biking and hiking and running all over town; green mountains, cows, maple syrup. Of course, beneath these thoughts are the complexities and realities of rural poverty and a whole lot more, but I much prefer to think of it as the home of Ben & Jerry’s and those teddy bears everyone seems to love so much. Regardless, it was a welcomed respite from the oppressive heat of New Orleans, and the chance to visit and celebrate with very dear friends.

Weddings are always fantastic. They remind you of the goodness in the world, and the hope that love can bring, not to mention the free alcohol and an opportunity to get dressed up in something besides Tevas. Of course, I arrived a day earlier and stayed a day later than everyone else, wondering what my options are as someone who can’t afford the hotel or even a nearby camping site. Now, I know there are many couples out there who are amazing planners and organized and thoughtful and all that razzmatazz, but I have to say, having two brides instead of one seemed to make all the difference. All the little details that guys simply just don’t care (nor think) about are double the pleasure, double the fun. I was one of the lucky few who got to take advantage of the vacant apartment downstairs from Kim and Lauren’s. Not only was it a great set-up from a convenience standpoint, but I was also able to spend a lot of time with Kim and Lauren, their families, and other guests (all while comfortably relaxing in my pajamas). They provided me with essentials like toothpaste and soap, a new queensize air mattress, and a fridge full of deviled eggs and pickles (that were technically for the rehearsal dinner BBQ but my over-consumption appeared to go unnoticed). And I got beaucoup time with the fam. Met the aunts and uncles, hung with the siblings, made pasta salad, stressed over turning off the brownies, teased younger cousins. Absolutely fabulous.

Lauren is a cherished friend from Peace Corps Togo, and while I had only met Kim once before, it was such a delight to have that extra time with them. There’s just something about the familiarity and comfort of a shared, intense experience like Peace Corps that joins people in such an authentic way. It had been three years since I had seen the majority of RPCVs from Togo at the wedding, and like they always say, we didn’t skip a bit, as if no time had passed at all. You learn to know one another in an exceptionally unguarded, vulnerable way that creates such an incredible space for honesty and compassion. It was an incontestably hilarious and joyful time to be together again, stitched over in laughter, trading village stories and sharing in new memories.

And the wedding itself…how can you go wrong in Vermont in the summertime at a barn in the middle of a green pasture? Um, you actually can’t. Perfect setting. If there is anyone that does not condone same sex marriage, I strongly suggest going to the ceremony of a gay couple. The love and commitment between Kim and Lauren was evident in everything that happened all evening, from the glances to the vows to the gestures—filled with beauty and truth and the simplicity of an undeniable love. I couldn’t help but feel that we were witnessing something bigger than the marriage of Kim and Lauren (of which my waterworks could vouch for), while that alone in itself was enough. It was more the symbolism of what they represent. Undying devotion. Unquestioning commitment…and the legal right to be recognized and supported as spouses. At the end of the day, that’s all we really hope for anyone, right? That they find a partner that brings to the surface things that were once dormant; fills a void searching for completeness; enhances the goodness in the other, and is built on the foundations of invincible adoration, respect, and dedication. I left the weekend feeling inspired about life, joyful about love, and grateful for the wonderful friendships I have in my world. Thanks Lauren and Kim for such a spectacular weekend (and for trusting me with the reception playlist).

out beyond ideas of right-doing and wrong-doing

there is a field--

i'll meet you there.

when the soul lies down in that grass

the world is too full to talk about--

ideas, language, even the phrase 'each other'

doesn't make any sense.

-rumi

Do You Know What it Means….

Well, I am in a much better place than the last time I blogged. I finally heard from CRS, and I can honestly say that after all the anticipation and conflicted thinking about staying in New Orleans or going back abroad, it didn’t seem like much of a decision at all. Adding a week to the anticipation only solidified what I already knew…that I wanted to go back to Africa and continue to do this type of work. It was one of those heartthumpingoutofyourchest moments that just felt incredibly perfect. Yes, grad school was totally worth it. Here I go. I will be placed in Mwanza, Tanzania—on the southern tip of Lake Victoria, on the outskirts of Serengeti National Park, working on HIV programming, agriculture projects, and livelihoods. Yay me. My life for the next year…what I want. Hands down.

In saying this, though, comes the acceptance of the expat life. Again. I’m sure to some my lifestyle seems exciting and somewhat intense, and in some ways I guess it is. But we expats also sacrifice a lot to do what we do, by choice. We choose time and again to uproot, adapt, learn, adjust, and settle in. Over and over. It’s a gift to learn about a new culture, a new country, put your footprint on a new spot of the globe that just blows your mind when you step off the plane. The majestic beauty, the vastness, the simplicity, the kindness, the resilience. It’s enlightening, challenging, humbling and hopeful. It’s what keeps us coming back. But coupled with this comes insecurity, isolation, disconnection, and the day to day turbulence of working in a foreign land. I will never be Togolese, Ethiopian, Rwandan, or Nicaraguan. As much as I educate and assimilate and accept, I will always have white American privilege propping me up, making excuses, justifying whatever it is I do or don’t do. It’s a lot to manage. You build friendships, but many are out of necessity or convenience. You balance the desire to live like a local while appreciating the comforts afforded you because you ARE white and you ARE American. You learn how to function seeing your family once a year and supporting friendships over Skype, email and Facebook. You give up the familiar and sacrifice what you could have had if you stayed. Your New Orleans wrapping you in her arms and showering you with a culture that can’t be found many places. So, yes. We agree to the loneliness and solitude in order to fight a greater cause, contribute to something much larger than ourselves. We overextend ourselves professionally, work incredibly long hours, frustrate ourselves beyond belief, and it’s all for the sake of the project, the work…because if the work isn’t changing lives, what the hell is the sacrifice really for?

Now that I finally know, it’s hard to start closing the door on New Orleans. I wake up every morning determined to recognize and appreciate how magical of a place this city is. I envy the richness of her culture—the festivals, the food, the music, the attitudes, the family. There’s always something to do in a very spontaneous, organic, wonderfully New Orleans sorta way. It’s also timeless in a way that I think most people recognize if you have spent any amount of time here. The pressures of fitting into those pre-determined timelines ruling and robotically running most of America just simply don’t exist. Must be married by 28. Must buy first home by 30. Must have first child by 32. It’s a great place to feel freedom without judgment. Everybody moves to the beat of their own drum, trombone, or washboard. Which is why I feel so happy to have had this four months back down here…to enjoy and appreciate and thank the city for the time I’ve had here, and also to know that there is no question in my mind that I will once again call New Orleans home…in 3 years, 5 years, 10 years…she’ll be waiting for me with open arms...back to her tradition and soul that make New Orleans so special. And, yes. Time and time again, I do indeed know what it means to miss New Orleans.

Anxious Anita

It never fails. As much as we convince ourselves that we are becoming more comfortable with uncertainty, don’t trust ourselves to be consumed by anticipation, we inevitably fall into that age-old trap of being disappointed by the expectations of which we set for ourselves, and allow to govern and rule our day to day worlds. The topic of this week’s meltdown? The international fellowship I applied for months ago had stated at our final interview in February that we would hear an answer by April 5^th, yay or nay, by telephone. This date became a fixation for me in every aspect of my life…like I couldn’t even schedule my dog’s haircut without knowing—knowing whether I’d continue a life in New Orleans and settle down into a reasonably stable, gloriously fun and challenging existence in a city I adore, or continue down the path of international work that would likely bounce me around the globe for the next few years. And when I say fixated, that’s putting it lightly. I’ve compiled massively extensive lists in the NOLA vs. abroad column…just waiting for that magical day to say, phew. Now I can get Netflix. Or, I can finally call my lender, fix the chain on my bike, take Spanish classes, sell used books, buy that tee shirt I want. Oh, I really shouldn’t go to that museum until I’m sure I’m staying in New Orleans or not. Huh?

I went crazy. Literally. By Monday night, I had stared at the screen of my Blackberry so many times, I was seeing icons when I blinked. I sobbed hysterically at the kitchen table, drank a bottle of wine, and allowed myself to feel knock-down, drag out, horrible about myself. Rejection and doubt are a bad combo, particularly when the rejection hasn’t even been confirmed yet. And again, I became mad at myself, because instead of being “rational and understanding Aimee” who realizes that there were numerous and likely reasons why there was a delay in communication, I permitted myself (with reckless abandon) to go to the bad place. That horrid, unhealthy place where you hate everything, above all yourself, and curse the very mentality you pretended all this time you didn’t have. It manifests itself in ugly ways. Your road rage exponentially increases on the way to and from work. Road rage in NOLA is a bad idea, people. Nobody has insurance and everybody owns a gun. You eat Taco Bell for like the third time in a decade; you convince yourself it’s ok to go to bed at 8pm. You decide with definitive authority that you detest each and every one of your coworkers, the majority of your friends, and even tolerate a short fuse with that loyal, fluffy, geriatric poodle who has never wronged you in your life.

It’s bad, and it’s your fault. The power of your own thinking is extraordinary and totally bizarre. It’s your expectations that have brought you to this mental space that’s unraveling you more by the day, and what has honestly changed between this week and last? Really? Nada. It’s still the waiting game. It’s still the same day to day existence you were living last week, so why all the hysteria? Because we are our harshest critics, our worst enemies, and the expectations we create and intend for ourselves will never be surpassed by anyone else. So, fine. Lesson learned. Again. Breathe. Live presently. Exist calmly. The universe will unfold in due time, either on April 5^th or otherwise.

Crescent City Spittin’ Her Game

Moving back to New Orleans for springtime festival season was an obvious no-brainer for me. While being home in Philly for the holiday festivities, as well as post-Nicaragua wintery blizzard world of 2010, was a gift in the sense that I got to share immeasurable time with my nieces and my folks, it was my age-old “holding pattern” scenario that I knew I just couldn’t get sucked into again. I’m curious as to whether there’s an age limit to the feeling you get being back at your parent’s place and you just magically revert back to early adolescence. Delicious homemade family dinners every night; 200 channels on the flatscreen tv; fluffy pillows and soft-smelling laundry; dinner and a movie outings with mom and dad. I mean, it’s just so comfortable and lovely and easy. But inevitably, there were the mornings that I woke up wondering, “Um, can I really live here for the next six months until I hear about this fellowship gig?” That familiar family place said yes. This is awesome. Time with my parents. Time with my sister and brother-in-law. Time getting to know my nieces to teach them all my annoying habits and forcing them to watch old Disney VHS tapes. No bills, no responsibilities, nothing to do but hang out, relax, regroup. Sigh.

But, when I came down to New Orleans for a much-anticipated and snow-delayed Mardi Gras, it seemed like a sign from the universe when Tulane offered me this temporary job at the Social Work school—a job that would take me through the end of July, upon which I would then either head back overseas or stay in New Orleans to pursue other work. Fast-forward through crazy transition week of the world: bought a car; found a place to live; went to Baltimore for my final fellowship interview; spent a day in NYC with my folks to see a broadway show; roadtripped to NOLA with my mom….and phew. Here I was. Again.

Now, it goes without saying that in my twisted brain there’s huge risk to being where you’ve already been. You’re battling some serious expectations about a place that is incredibly familiar, but in a completely new context. Things change. People change. The universe shifts. But I was thoroughly convinced that this was it—the right choice for right now. All signs pointing South. I could push aside all those nagging thoughts of temporary vs. permanent yet again. So what if I’m moving down for only four amazing months in a city I love? I can handle the uncertainty and live my life. Stop coasting through at my parent’s place.

Well, there’s this thing about New Orleans, see. For anyone who has lived her for longer than, ohhh, I’d say six months, you know exactly what I’m talking about. That undeniably authentic, spontaneous, gritty energy and culture that everyone raves makes New Orleans the funkiest city in America? Well, it’s true. Damn true…but that same energy can turn on you. This city is one moody bitch. All the sudden you look around at the past few weeks and think, “Shit. Can I really handle anything else right now?” All those seemingly unrelated bad strokes of luck—the car breaking down, you losing your job (and your boyfriend…and your dog), finding out you need to get a root canal, serve on jury duty, owe money for taxes…that’s not the universe, that’s the Crescent City, baby. She’s a living, breathing creature like any of us, and this is why we love her. She can welcome you with her sunshine, crawfish boils, tree-lined parks, brass bands and southern hospitality, and she can just as quickly make you wonder what the hell you’re doing there.

That’s kind of how my first month back has felt. It’s been full of ups and downs that I guess are typical of any transition, but it feels different because it’s familiar. But I lived here before, my head says, “Why the hell is this so hard?” It’s hard because it’s different and familiar. Friends have moved on. Work is not school. Gentilly is not Uptown. New roommates are not old roommates. But I feel confident that just like me, she’ll get through whatever it is she needs to get through, and the city will once again magically embrace me with open arms and things will start feeling at home again. They always do. It’s springtime in New Orleans, for Pete’s sake. And there just ain’t nothin’ better than festival season in New Orleans. Yes, indeedy.