Walking down the street I pass face after face shrouded in darkness – darkness because it’s night and nothing more than shadows grace the faces that I try so desperately to stare at. Yet in the back of my mind I quietly remind myself that I’m walking the streets of a harmless community tucked away somewhere in Bangkok, Thailand. Construction workers yell at me from the roof of their midnight project while stray dogs scavenge through trash looking for their evening meal, something to appease the worms in their stomach, worms that are probably in mine as well. And traffic avoids you here. It doesn’t yell at you through the car horn or screech around you in disgust. My walk to the internet is uneventful. It’s a pleasant evening stroll because the weather’s perfect, it’s quiet out, and nothing more than thoughts of thankfulness dance through my head.
I am at peace.
And perhaps it’s a peace that was foreign to me just eleven months ago. It’s hard to think that such a large amount of time has passed by so quickly. Many have rejoiced at this fact, yet others such as myself, merely shake our heads in disbelief. I’m not ready for this familiarity to exhaust itself. I want it to continue… but I also want the page to turn and the chapter to end all the same.
It’s difficult to imagine that I’ve begun to find comfort in that which makes me uncomfortable. It probably has something to do with the fact that what was once unfamiliar is now making itself familiar, so even the thought of returning to that which I came from is a bit terrifying.
How can the thought comfort be uncomfortable? How can familiarity seem so foreign?
And I suppose it’s all a matter of perception and what we make of things, but I also don’t think that makes a difference in this case. I’ve come to enjoy nightly walks to the mini-mart in a foreign country with nothing but its inhabitants and uncertainties surrounding me.
My heart aches at the thought of leaving unfamiliarity – I’ve grown to rest in it with such peace.
It’s just hard to imagine that at in less than a week I’ll be back in the States, back at home in Kansas sitting on our incredibly comfortable couch… assuming that it’s still there; there’s no saying what my family’s done in the last 11 months. I just pray that the couch is still there. It was so comfortable. And I hope that it’s still sitting on carpet because I really miss that stuff too. And I remember that my parent’s kitchen was like its own mini-mart. Not only would you find myself in there feasting out of the refrigerator, but it wasn’t unusual to find my friends in there either. They liked to come over and eat, but it’s because my parents gave them an open invitation (probably not the smartest move when you live five blocks from the college).
And it wasn’t uncommon to find my family in the living room chatting with my friends. They would say, “your mom’s so awesome!” Or in some cases they would ask if they could come over to talk to her. She is, in fact, that awesome. And I remember another one of my friends absolutely loved my dad. He always wanted to invite him to things. And my sister, well, of course she was around to corrupt my friends’ minds with sad but true stories of my childhood.
Yet, again, it’s hard to imagine that this is more than a fading memory… because things aren’t the same in Kansas either – life has moved on.
I wish that I could grasp this reality with fullness… but oftentimes I find myself wanting to deny the existence of it.
Maybe this familiar unfamiliarity is closer to home than I thought.
