Getting off script

Once you are a Peace Corps volunteer you begin to understand that as soon as you get comfortable and start to cruise along, an identity/emotional crisis is just around the next bend. It's spring. We are all happy to have sunshine and warm weather. We're traveling more. Opening the windows and letting the dirt and debris freely drift in. Ah! Perhaps that's why so many of us are now revisiting why we are here and asking "what the fuck am I supposed to be doing?" See, those of you watching at home think this is...damn strange. It's spring! Enjoy! Frolic! (OK, no one I know would say frolic, or encourage me to do so with a straight face, but you catch my drift.) Those of us not yet voted off the island see such spender as a time to pull out the berets and black turtlenecks and ask "Why? Why me?" It's our own special cult ritual.

There are reasons to stay, for sure. The country is really beautiful and there are lots of outdoorsy explorations to be had. We've all made great friendships here, and I count myself among the luckiest in both quantity and quality in that sphere. We really see things that need to be change and want to help change them. We still believe, in our heart of hearts, that the world can and should be a better place and we want to do our part for that. We still want to buy the world a Coke. Sigh. Again, the viewing audience and the players are seeing two different things. You see greatness, nobility, fortitude, perseverance. We see...handcuffs. We have NO idea how to make this happen. It's not like we just walk into an office and say "ok, your change agent is here!" and everyone breathes a sigh of relief and breaks into applause (see, that was our secret dream - no seriously, it kinda was). People don't care and those that do care don't believe something can actually be done about it. People are not so happy with their lives, but they are OK with them...and they don't wish to risk something that's ok for some crazy idealistic American, thank you.

Embedded in the issue is the phrase "walk into an office". See, again, you at home might think an office is a comfortable work environment. You might even use *gulp* "natural". Or *flinch* "thoughtful". We are going to politely but insistently disagree. See, we left our offices (some recent college graduates (RCGs) left before they even got one), because we wanted to do more, think bigger, get our hands dirty, think about problems outside of reports and spreadsheets. We packed up and moved across the ocean to be given 9-5 working hours and have a poorly designed desk. It's slow, but deliberate torture. We make less, use a worse computer, sit at a more uncomfortable desk, do less challenging work and live away from our family and friends. This would almost - ALMOST - be ok if we felt as if we were really accomplishing something. But are we? Doesn't really seem like it. We're free spirits - the kind that make you jump into a developing country where you don't know anyone - the kind that flees monotony, basic daily life and a job you don't truly love.

I've written this entry outside of my usual first person form, not because I've suddenly decided to become the Royal We (though it would be funny to just switch to that and make no mention of it), but because I keep having these conversations with person after person. The conversations we have with people outside this experience are often different that those we have with others in it. We show personal struggles that we could be having anywhere (she said then he did...), tell about whatever work we are involved in (or hope to be involved in) and share culture tidbits. Telling you why we stay is so much more complicated. Most of us aren't really sure, and sometimes the answers aren't so pure - we often just stay because we don't know what else we'd do (in fact, that's the usual reason). We're really still searching for answers (even finding new questions from time to time), and that search isn't something that's so easy to share. Some days it feels like you have less than you started the experience with and you fear, as a friend phrased it, that you are wasting good muscle. It makes you feel that you are worse for the wear. That you have shrunk in some way. That horrible feeling is our dysfuntional, semi-abusive relationship with the experience. We stay because we came to become better - bigger in some way - and we think next week/month/season will be different. And we are different, even bigger and better in some way, but the struggles and the frustrations continue. Sometimes the berets and turtlenecks resurface out of depression, other times frustration, other times annoyance, other times a complete lack of self-worth. They are barely taken off long enough to be stretched out by the unnecessarily rough washer and dried crunchy in the sun.

Like all beret and turtleneck wearers, we generally keep to ourselves - it's a style that just isn't accepted outside the circle. In fact, like all socially imposed uniforms and philosophizing circles, it's a little ridiculous and self-indulgent. We know that. But we came here to be a little of that. Or a lot. Whatever. In the end, I guess the message is this: from the comfort of your homes this may look a little more noble, a little cleaner, a little simpler than it is. On set, it's just fucking emotional chaos.

Finally inviting myself to the party

If you've ever had a conversation with me you know I like to solve the world's problems - or try to. I am a theorist who didn't want to spend her life writing for obscure journals that no one but my poor students read (and they only read them because I made them). I like to solve puzzles. I am often guilty of telling people why something will not work. It makes me seem like the World's Biggest Pessimist. I'm not. Really. I want the answer and I want it so much that I pick holes in every answer presented so that I know if it's not the right one I can keep searching. My external pessimism is internal optimism: the great answer exists, just keep at it.

Being here, in Bulgaria, where everything is just-not-so, I want change. Change, change, change. I want people to understand things can be bigger, better, faster. There can be more. Go! Get out of that comfort zone! Explore! In my head, I admit, my thoughts were of the asshole variety: "Look at me! I did it! I came here!" Yeah, for all you PCVs and future PCVs out there: that's being an asshole. I came here with the backing of the US government, with a job, with housing and salary provided, with access to modern medicine, with a ticket home if I needed it. That's not leaving the comfort zone, that's moving to a different comfort neighborhood. Here's your Whizzo button. You moved.

Comfort zones are more personal, less tangible. It's not about where you are necessarily, but about what you do there. I live in a nice apartment that I've made quite comfortable (those who've seen my old places can imagine). I have good friends here. I live in a fairly cool town, by local standards. I have internet and a cell. I travel. Comfort, comfort, comfort. Not change, change, change.

I came here for change - I've even found a good bit of it. I've been earnestly working on myself for almost 9 months. I'm in a different head space. I'm coming into feeling and being more me than I have in years. I even suspect that I may leave here feeling more like the real me than I ever have... it just requires this next step. True change.

Faithful readers will note that after pushing aside this blog every so often I "recommit" to it. I make it seem like it's a person. An obligation. That's not change for me. I commit to people and to felt obligations all the time (*psst* you can guilt me on just about anything - I'm a pushover like that). That's the old me pretending to be a new me. That's not change - that's smoke and mirrors. Change for me is simple: it's not moving 1/2 way around the world, it's not adding on another task. It's committing. Committing to me. For me.

Why do I keep committing to do this? It's a blog. Lots of people dump their blogs for quite some time. No one dies. It's not a lifeline....wait. It is. For me, yes, it is. I've spent some time thinking this weekend about who I am and who I "wanted to be when I grew up" - I began to wonder if I'm honoring that. My biggest goal in high school was to get out. I wanted that bigger, better, more that I mentioned. I was going to find it. I conscientiously made a choice. I remember making it. It was the 8th grade. I was a straight-A student. I was popular. I was involved in lots of social and extracurricular activities. I loved art and writing. I wanted to never live in poverty again. My mind took over my heart. It told me: you want out? Study, poor people don't get rich through art and writing. I haven't touched a paintbrush since, and my proverbial pen has been all but exclusively reserved for work and academics. As the saying goes, I died a little bit that day.

This blog is a first attempt at resuscitating that girl. That dream. I never dreamed of working at a desk. Of writing reports. Of fluorescent lighting. I never wanted to be a spreadsheet slut when I grew up. In middle school I had a slumber party every year for my birthday. I do not exaggerate when I say that it was the party of the year. Who was invited was a big social call on my part: don't hurt people's feelings, but don't invite the annoying girls either. It started Friday and went until Sunday evening. Non-stop middle school fun. One year I wrote the invitation. It was in the form of a story or something. I don't fully remember. I typed it up and gave it out. It was about 3/4 of a page long. I wish I still had that, as inspiration. Whatever it was, it was laugh-out-loud funny to everyone. People were quoting it for months afterwards. I don't remember the party that year, or whom I invited but I remember writing that invitation and the response it got. That writer - that's who I wanted to be when I grew up.

In high school I was an REM girl. It was the beginning of my obsession with lyrics - poetry with music. I can't imagine that anyone who knew me at that time doesn't associate me with their music - I listened to it all the time. My favorite album was "Life's Rich Pageant". I don't listen to it much these days, but I do recall the richness of the lyrics. In fact, when I was thinking about this post the following verse came to me:

Trust in your calling, make sure your calling's true
Think of others, the others think of you
Silly rule golden words make. Practice - practice makes perfect
Perfect is a fault, and fault lines change

I haven't trusted my calling, although I now think it's true and I forget sometimes that the others think of me....I did practice. I spent many years learning the rules and trying to be perfect only to realize perfection is a fault. Who wants to be perfect? That's damn boring and I have no toleration for boring.

Doing this blog is change - the biggest change I've made in some time. It's not about keeping on task or even about the writing. It's about me - about honoring my calling, what I can and want to be. It's about accepting that I'm not perfect (perhaps even a little messy) and I don't really want to be (I don't want to be messy either, but that's another struggle).

I used to have this rule of thumb that I followed: be where you want to be and be fully present when you're there. If you can't be where you want, do whatever you can to get there. Don't dishonor the people in your life by asking them to help you kill time - truly want to be with them or leave. I've followed the rule fairly well, though there were certain loopholes I gave myself. My dating life has been pretty non-existent -- I was never someplace I didn't want to be, I just wasn't where I wanted. My dating life is still non-existent. There's no external change there, though there has been enormous internal change. For the first time in my life I am single not because I think I am unworthy of being cared for, but because I know I am worthy - of myself foremost. I want to invest in caring for me. In knowing me. I want to develop the richness I know is inside and I want it to be self-defined. I deserve to give myself that - and time for that process. I want to really enjoy my own company (again). I want to be with me.

On the outside I must look the same. Still in Bulgaria, still single, still writing. On the inside though, it's a different ballgame. It's not about proving to people that I can stick it out. It's not about fearing rejection. It's not about just putting words out there. It's about honoring and developing me. Me for me is so new and inviting. Turns out I'm not a total asshole (shut up), change is what I believe in.

That's my story and I'm sticking to it

It's Saturday. I feel a little hungover. Sounds seem too loud or as if they are coming through a muffled tunnel (yes, I know - those are my ears). My head feels clogged. I'm a little achy. And tired.

You might be wondering what I did last night - sounds like I had quite a time, right? Well, I watched "Being Julia" and ate popcorn. No alcohol. I was hungover then too. The night before?? Nothing...I drank Wednesday night. Seriously - WEDNESDAY. I met a friend for drinks and was looking to get a little tipsy. Well, I skipped that part (once an overachiever, always one) and went straight for deliriously intoxicated. And sick. So very sick. I have no idea how I got through that night - it was quite a mess. I will spare you the details....let's just say my body rapidly started detoxifying itself. I have never been that sick or drunk in my life. Ever.

For those who don't know me, this may make me seem like quite the lightweight. Friends back home can testify, however, that I can hold my own with the best of them (well, ok, not my mom who has a special compartment or something that I didn't inherit). There were times when I was quite the drinker indeed. There are two changes here: 1) Bulgarian alcohol is really, really low-grade, bottom-shelf stuff. I'm not being catty, just honest. My dad wouldn't strip a deck with this stuff. When I drank in the States I was more of a top-shelf gal (surprise!). That difference couldn't not have helped matters. 2) Ick. As I approach my 29th birthday, I am reminded that I am getting older and perhaps I just shouldn't assume I can pound them back as well or as quickly as before. I don't mind the aging process (in general) and even look forward to turning 30 (and getting out of the 20s, which I consider dreadful) . It's just hard to think that I'm reaching that watch-what-you-drink-and-take-your-pill stage. I have no pills...yet.

So, this is my theory: my body (light on food) didn't take well to low-grade gin (and quite a sum of it). It rejected it and in the process took a swing at my immune system. That's what I'm fighting - a weakened immune system. Not a 2.5 day hangover. Not my age... Makes sense.

All this theorizing and explaining is making me tired. I think I need a nap.

Life's candy: Finding and capturing the moment

My counterpart (Peace Corps speak for colleague-type person) came back from a trip to France today. With her she brought French candies (when people travel here they always bring back candy to share - it's a nice tradition and it brings people in to hear your stories) along with small gifts for the department staff. And, of course, stories.

I've spent some time, I admit, making fun of how Bulgarians tell stories. They're not actually stories - they tend to be a statement of fact about something or a retelling of a thirty second exchange. My counterpart happens to be a great non-storyteller. Even with my limited Bulgarian I know that she's damn funny. She gets really excited and builds up to the end. She has the right timing and knows her audience. All traits of a good storyteller. As I'm listening to her non-stories I'm thinking: Well, these are good. What's wrong with the other ones? I thought that maybe there are just a lot of bad storytellers here, but that seemed really narrow-minded. Then, I though about it and realized there aren't very many good American storytellers either (see, I'm not narrow-minded - just snotty... and yes, your stories are TOTALLY interesting, really). Hearing good non-stories forced me to ponder what was in them - there's something there that they are conveying. And then it hit me: they are sharing their moments, not their stories.

We Americans, even if we understand nothing else, understand marketing. We understand the buildup and the punchline and attaching descriptors to every aspect. We dress things up. We make it look meaty. I think Bulgarians don't quite get the marketing aspect of stories. But just because it doesn't come out with all the right bells and whistles doesn't mean nothing's there. Her stories were about fighting with a waiter. About how she knew they spoke English, but wouldn't (and she's a Bulgarian - so it's not just us). About how someone brought cheese on the bus and everyone assumed someone hadn't showered. Lots of little things. Moments. As the moment-telling realization hit me, it also hit me that these things were really personal. They were entertaining, sure, but moreover they were the snapshots she took in her head - the moments that she fully remembered and that she really responded to. The simpleness of these non-stories went from feeling really distant to being really intimate. It said: this is what happened. You know how I feel. It was pure...and unmarketed.

After lunch, I went to my other job with a package I got today. They asked what was in it and I ripped open a bag of Jelly Bellys (thanks, Diana) which was among the lot of snacks and things in the box. They insisted that I not share - that they were for me and that I missed those things. I insisted back (something I've learned here) and poured them some. They each took one politely and bit into the JB. Instantly their eyes lit up and big smiles came across their faces. They loved them. They were so happy. Each one, a different and wonderful flavor - as you know - provided them with renewed joy. They told me how great and inventive my country was. That I was so kind and giving to share with them. Somehow the JBs were like a fruity, slushy beverage which greased the conversation enough to allow them to tell me that Taureans (my sign) are the best lovers - that you'd never know it because they don't advertise it, but they are incredibly attentive and exciting. Perhaps all the unexpected yumminess of the JBs started the conversation, perhaps it just came from no where. Having your colleagues suspect you of being a great lover though is quite a moment indeed.

That last bit: that was a fully marketed story. Seeing the explosive flavor of a Jelly Belly in someone's eyes who is tasting it for the first time, that was a moment. Knowing that I was sharing something common to me, but that was really grand to someone else...that was a moment too. Having your co-workers talk about the sex life of your astrological sign only to pause, scan you and conclude "yep, you too" was, of course, another.

Listing those three moments was much more personal than telling the story. And they said more, if you really took them in. It's easy to conclude that Bulgarians are distant and closed, but I think their willingness to share their moments is evidence of the contrary. If we shared our moments more openly - more simply - we'd show a lot more of ourselves. We'd put it out there in a really naked way, but only for those thoughtful and insightful enough to see it. Are we afraid of being naked? Or that people aren't tuned in enough to see it? Perhaps that we'd be expected to tune in right back?

Moments, unlike stories, are purely accidental, or at least unplanned. They come and go quickly, but leave a lasting impression. You can construct a situation enough to get a story out of it, but will you get a moment? A moment is a connection - be it with your heart, your mind, your soul or just your funny bone. Knowing that people here cherish the moments makes me like them more. It makes me connect with them more. It also makes a few things make sense. If you cherish moments, changing situations and constructing a new way of life can seem pointless - the good things come when they come. I don't live that way - I think making changes creates more moments, good and bad - but I see how people could, especially people who are avoiding bad moments.

I tell lots of stories (and, yes, they are good - thank you), but to be sincere, my fondest and most important memories are moments. You'll know what they are when I tell a story. I'll dwell on the details. I get glassy-eyed as I remember the sounds and the scents and the textures around me. Some I don't share - they'd be Bulgarian non-stories...I just can't imagine cloaking them in anything or connecting them to conversation in some meaningful way, so they remain private. Private treasures. My secret stash of candy. I'd share, but I don't know what you'd do with unwrapped candy.

Daily boringness, followed by friendly goodness.

Recommitting to writing in this thing on a daily basis, I sit here at close to 10pm and wonder what to write about. Not every day can be deep and earth-shattering. Thank God! Today was no exception: I went to work #1 (the municipality) killed time until lunch....went to work #2 (the NGO) chatted for a bit about actually trying to do something meaningful while I'm here (God forbid). Then I came home, chatted online a bit with some friends, talked to the Peace Corps staff about being placed in a project factory that doesn't actually do or change anything and then watched "Hidalgo" while eating chicken parm. Yeah, I could have done that anywhere.

After all of that though I caught my friend Meg online. Meg rocks, that's the gist of it. I want to meet more of my future friends the way I met her: by interviewing her. See, I don't follow those interview rules of asking questions like "what is your biggest weakness?" No, I make the person keep up with me in conversation. It requires someone to be quick and smart and to not annoy the crap out of me (the last being the most important and most rare). I can work with most shortcomings beyond that. So, the person I interviewed before Meg was perfectly smart and lovely, but she would have been more comfortable working with someone more, er, tactful. I test for that too. I get riled up about work sometimes and I need someone who can hack it. Also, I like relaxed work environments and in a relaxed setting conversation can get pretty darn candid. A person doesn't have to contribute to bawdy conversation, but they can't be offended either. Luckily I had a good example to offer: the day before the staff was engaged in a conversation about high colonics. It got detailed and loud and we were laughing our asses off. I mention this to girl #1 and her eyes got really big and she squirmed. Um, no. Mentioned it to Meg and she leaned forward and said "Really? Like what about them?" That's when I knew. Meg and I were meant to be.

Our work relationship was really casual and included a lot of laughing and just having a good time. Well, tonight's conversation was no exception. Meg knows me pretty well - she knows when to push things or poke fun, when to sympathize and when to just say "that's fucked up". It's like a good counselor mixed with a drinking buddy. Actually, it's just like a really amazing drinking buddy. God, I wish Meg was here (and brought good beer with her). I could really use a good drinking buddy right about now. Someone to piss and moan and laugh with. Here's to Meg. Cheers!

PS - As a further ode to Meg: In our IMs tonight, I mentioned this posting to her, esp. the high colonic part, and among her comments were: "is a high colonic more 'cathartic' than a regular colonic?" Nice.
PPS - Yes, yes, I know. My hiring practices are totally illegal. Luckily, the only people bold enough to sue me are those I'd hire.

Typecasting...myself

I've mentioned that I believe people join the Peace Corps to help others, but to mainly help themselves. We've all jumped out of a life of comfort (varying degrees, of course) and safety to the great unknown to wrestle with things. I am most certainly no exception. The two biggest things I've come to tackle here are my perceptions of myself (and how they limit me) and the roles that I play (and how they limit me). How I see myself helps determine the roles I play, and my roles help influence how I see myself. It's all a big, nasty, circular mess. That's what I'm here for.

I've shed some of my roles and I'm working on others. If I can get out of even a few self-doubts and confining roles in my two years, it will be two years well spent (personally well spent ...Professionally? I'm still not sure about that). One of my trickiest struggles is with gender. On one hand, I think it's fun and I like playing with it a bit - not being "the girl". On the other hand, I think it's scary, uncharted territory. By not being "the girl" I've often been one of the guys. By often, I mean pretty much always. It started in the 3rd grade. Tony, Gary, Chris and I played ball together and eventually Tony and I became closer friends. Then, one day, Tony started talking to me about Sandy and how pretty and great she was. And I listened, as friends do, gave advice, didn't say that she was a twit...whatever. That was the beginning of my non-Sandy career. I've been trying to shed it ever since.

There've been many Tonys - some I was attracted to, some I wasn't. But the end is pretty much the same: "you're a great friend...so there's this Sandy character..." It happens too often. I know it's my fault. I have to own that. I just need to figure out why - what do I do to cause this? I act like myself and am honest about who I am. I don't like games. I let my personality represent myself. These are all good things, and things I don't intend to change. But there are bad things I do too: I don't have a lot of physical self-confidence, so I hide in non-descript clothes and tuck myself away whenever I can. I don't flirt - ever. I play one of the guys, or at least the non-girl. A friend said to me the other day, "you emit this 'just the friend' scent and I see all of this charm and beauty and energy and desire, but you let them pat you on the back like one of the boys." She's right, I do.

I do other things too, things that are a mixed bag - they're things that I do and feel honestly but I know hinder me in some way. I rarely am initially attracted to a guy. I can't even remember the last time I was. It's possible for me to find a guy physically attractive and not have any attraction to him. I need time. I need to know him. I need to see his character in his face, in his movements, before I know. I'd like him to see and process that way too. I just think most people (men and women) don't. Most people process: attraction, connection, closeness. I do the reverse. I just always have. Can't say that I recommend it.

It's a lot to overcome, but something I know I have to. I can't let this one go - the weight is too much. Where do I start? How do I convince me that I'm *gulp* attractive? What do I do with my current Tonys? How do I prevent future ones? How do I stop being a non-Sandy without becoming a Sandy? Without losing me?

Friends: Girlfriends and finding qualified applicants

Throughout my life I've had about equal number of male and female friends. There have even been periods where my number of male friends has far exceeded the number of female friends (I hung out at a lot of Irish pubs, developed an ability to drink an absurd amount of Guinness and learned a bit about hockey during that time). While currently keeping my tradition of befriending both sexes, I must say that the past few weeks have brought some significant advances in the number of women in my life. Recent times have also brought a few friends to send various "don't forget your girlfriends" forwards. I'm not a fan of men vs. women (everyone knows women are better, why gloat?), but I've had more than a few moments, be they in person, on the phone, via online chat, in emails, or what-have-you that so incredibly capture the joy and understanding that women bring to women, that just remembering some of them now make me smile. These little events, moments, connections are the kind of things that even if retold wouldn't warrant more than a eyebrow raise and a skeptical "ok". You really did just have to be there. There's not a single woman in my life I don't have private little jokes with - jokes we can share in a room and no one else knows what in the hell we are talking about. Most women I know can hyperlink our current conversation to a previous one with just a word, or even a gesture and I know exactly what they mean. When I'm rambling for hours or even days about something - they get it and understand that I'm trying to get there too. This isn't to say that I don't appreciate the men in my life (I know some pretty terrific ones), just to say that girlfriends are...special and oh-so needed.

My social circle slowly is slowly expanding. Most people would see this as a good thing, perhaps even ask "why slowly?". Here's the deal: I'm a quality-over-quantity gal. I'd rather fully explore and expand the friendships I have than to gather more friends. This is to the point that when I start to develop a friendship with someone I think something along the lines of "Are you worth it, really?" The more people I add to my life, the less time I get to spend with those friends I currently have. And the friends I already have are pretty damn fantastic, so Dance, Monkey! Dance!! Just kidding (sort of). I'm picky, that's the short of it.

I've never really fully gotten what I am picky about - I mean my friends are all so different and unique that it's been hard to find a common thread. Then, a weekend ago, on a long bus ride following me begrudgingly allowing more people into the circle I figured it out: I like characters. Perhaps this sounds trite. Let me explain. I like people who, when they walk into a room you know they are there and who they are. The kind of people you don't say "Is that Joe or Jack? I get them confused" about. With my friends, you know Joe is nothing like Jack. When I meet people I end up becoming friends with, I always have a reaction, even if it's a wrong one. Admittedly, I don't often like future friends when I first meet them - they just seem like too much. In the end, it is precisely this "too much" that I adore and bond with. There's something more than that though. I like people with internal fire - with, as Scott would say, a thirst for life. I heart life forces. I like people who are hungry (not necessarily physically, but a taste for good food is appreciated) and people who genuinely struggle with who they are and the world they live in. I like genuineness - in fact, I demand it (along with kindness and humanity and wit and...). I relish the company of questioners. Of thinkers. Of feelers. Of wanters.

There are people you meet, we all know these people, and everyone says how "cool" or "nice" or "cute" or "fun" or [some other mealy adjective] the person is. People can't think of anything bad to say about them, but they can't think of anything stellar either. Yeah, those people: not my friends. It might make me a fastidious snob, but that's part of my character. And who doesn't love character?

Mapquestless

There are times when I feel like something is so distinct and peculiar there must be a metaphor hidden there somewhere. Other times, something is just so damn obvious that I am a victim of a metaphor bitch slap. The other day was one of those times.

OK, so this is cheesy and obvious. Don't think "Jen's turned into Kitchen Soup for the Soul or something" I need something to write about. This blogging thing is a big personal goal, and this is just a place to restart - you metaphor snobs, you.

So, back to my story... I was walking alone in the local park (Kenana). I was keeping a good pace, heart rate was up, I was enjoying the Robert Frost-like trails surrounded by bare trees and crisp air. I am trying to get to know this park better - there are tons of trails going in every direction and I want to know them well enough that I can walk in the park, decide I want, say, a 3-hour walk and know what trails will give me that. Actually, every time I go I get annoyed. Annoyed that the trails aren't marked or colored or something, so that a simple map could tell me this information without me spending all my time trying to figure it out (put me in a city or town and I always know my way...if lost in the woods I'd be one of those people walking in circles for days. I never remember where a trail goes. It's sad, I know.) . I follow a trail I think I know and suddenly find myself in an open field with a lot of standing water and mud. My pace grinds to a halt as I scan what is before me: mud and dung (Robert never mentioned dung, the dick) or returning the way I came. That's when I saw the symbolism that was too obvious to ignore.

I came here to get off the marked trails - I didn't really want to, I mean it would be sort of comforting to be fulfilled by the path most traveled by - you know where it leads and what to do. You just enjoy the walk. But I was drowning in sadness and anger and frustration (I just got my personal passport from Peace Corps and my photo from 1998 looks like I am ten years older than I look now). I needed a new trail - my own. BUT, and there always is one...I still want that comfort, that knowledge that the marked trails provide. Even after jumping across the ocean and landing in a random town where no one knows me, or my former creation of me, I am still fighting what I know I need. That full plunge is so...overwhelming.

The field was the end of even the unmarked trail - just openness with a lot of mess and I really had to just slosh around a bit until I found and opening that looked like it could lead some place. Like I said, I went from this brisk pace to almost a dead stop. I am at that "almost dead stop" now. Every day passes by me with lightning speed. I don't feel like I do anything or accomplish anything from when I wake to when I sleep. My former self still hangs around screaming about to-do lists and goals. I mentioned in a previous post what I felt like upper-class and working-class women do to avoid dealing with their lives. I didn't mention the middle-class. It was too true, too painful to admit. This is what middle-class women do: we become workaholics. We eat and drink and breathe to-do list and meetings and lots of busyness. I DO still want that, but not as a means of avoidance. And I want to let myself stand or slow down, if that's what I need to do. I just don't know when goals are there for my self-growth and when they are there for avoidance. And I don't know when standing is processing or checking-out. I'm hard on myself - it feels like I go from avoidance to checking-out. Perhaps I do.

In the end I found a way out without going backwards, though my running shoes were mud-soaked in the process. I walked back home through the main strip in the park. Everyone stared at my shoes - I mean, they were COVERED in mud. This is not something people do here, like it's not something people do often in the States - you stick to the clean trails, the trails you know. My reaction to their reaction was two-fold. One, I was proud that I got off the beaten path and was showing people there were other things to do in the park but stick to the safe grounds. Two, I was ashamed. It was clear. It was all over my shoes. I fucked up and had no idea where I was going. I've never been that girl. It's hard. It's hard to wear that truth on your sleeve, or in this case, on my shoes.