Picking Scabs

There's something oddly satisfying about fiddling with scabs. A strange gratification comes when, after carefully tugging at the coagulated shield, it breaks free and the sore underneath is exposed. Pink and thin, the skin is sensitive. It is tender, but not notably unpleasant. It is raw. It is real.

For 7 months and 19 days, I've been picking at scabs. 

On June 10th, I landed in America confused, angry, and disoriented. Confused about why I so desperately missed a culture which I barely knew, angry that I had already returned home, and disoriented as I tried to make sense of my mixed and volatile emotions. I was greeted with a "welcome home" from airport employees in Atlanta, but I barely heard them over the conflicting thoughts in my mind, which were noisily vying for attention like spoiled children. I smelled like sweat, poorly air-dried clothes, and a hint of DEET. I smelled like three and a half weeks of rugged tropical biology class in Latin America. I loved it. I clung to it.

In fact, I loved it so much that I didn't shower that night. When I awoke the next morning to the musty smell of an old bedroom, I caught a whiff of my own scent and was reminded that the experience was, in fact, quite real. Comforting. 

Days later, I strung together my memories in a line of pictures. Pictures worth thousands of words that I've already forgotten. The process was cathartic, but crippling. I was exposing sores before they'd been given a chance to heal. The fact was I didn't want them to heal. I wanted desperately to remain angry, confused, and disoriented. I wanted to poke at my thin, pink skin hidden under the fresh scab. I wanted raw. I wanted real.

What happened in those three and a half weeks is still impossible for be to adequately mold into words. It changed and challenged me. I came home different. I feared that if I lost the feelings that I re-entered America with, I would lose part of myself. I systematically and habitually licked my wounds in protest, precluding proper healing in hopes of creating a more permanent mark.

It's interesting to consider what the fear of forgetting does to the human soul. Rather than experiencing life presently, we yearn for the unreachable past and punish any means to move forward. We hop on the hamster wheel of anti-progress, futilely running away from where we are. It's a strange tug-of-war which constantly fluxes, only to change the very next day with an ever-exaggerated backlash. Perhaps we believe that we don't deserve to move on. Maybe we derive more comfort from feeling pain than from the possibility of feeling nothing at all.

As time passes, the oscillations attenuate and I'm able to listen to Julieta Venegas without surging into a debilitating 3-day-funk of missing Panama. Gallo pinto and plantains are comfort foods rich in good memories, not painful teases. However, I still can't bring myself to finish the small remainder of my Cafe Ruiz coffee, although it is far past the acceptable drinking period. Maybe I never will. 

My scabs remain, and although they slowly harden, I still test their vulnerability.

Just one more poke.....

New Year's Resolutions

Much of the last several months has been a confluence of coming and going, adjusting and settling, wanting out and wanting to stay.

Christmas came and went, as did the New Year, and while extraordinary things have happened in the last year, we all find ourselves in the same position: wishing desperately to fulfill last year's resolutions to lose weight, find love, get healthier, get happier, or some other absurdly vague benchmark. And on January 1st, we all find that strange determination to take another stab at our lofty goals. Somehow, simply starting the calendar over means that we become new and will change, though our goals and methods remain the same.

I know of and scoff these fallacies in theory. That's about it. I'm as much of a sucker as the next person.

After a several-month hiatus from regular exercise, I decided that the New Year's declaration for a new me was right: time to fasten my running shoes. I jogged onto the road and it felt good to be moving again, albeit clumsily and uncoordinated. Florence and the Machine came up next on my playlist and I bounded along in time with their catchy and get-stuck-in-your-head-for-the-rest-of-the-day song, The Dog Days Are Over. Mistake.

Having been a member of my high school drumline for 4 years, I simply cannot walk, run, or think out of step with a song I'm listening to. When Florence slowed, I slowed. When Florence sped up, I sped up. When Florence repeatedly beckoned "run fast for your mother, fast for your father", I ran faster. And faster. And faster. Arms were flailing madly and my legs stretched for larger and larger bounds.

Out of breath and lungs searing, I pressed on up a monstrous hill. With no breath to spare, my mind sputteringly (as if it too was breathing as heavily as the rest of my body) cursed my legs, my poor physical condition, and it's own pliability as I complied to Florence's requests of whomever the heck she was signing to.

Run faster.

Why?! I've already been running FOREVER!

I glanced at my watch. Five minutes.

Sweet.

Why am I so compliant? Why do I care if Florence says to run faster? Why do I go through this stupid charade of beginning a running routine every year? I hate running. I really do. Unless I'm in shape. But, of course, being in shape requires regular running in the first place. Crap.

I suppose the fact of the matter is that we are products of our culture and creatures of habit. Culture shapes values (like setting stupidly vague goals), drives motivation (like believing a different calendar date entitles me to attain these goals), and influences our reactions (like hanging up running shoes with inner shame, outwardly justifying our failures by saying that things got busy and work got to be too much). Rather than hate it, I'm choosing to realize it for what it is. I can't wish it away. I would have to unlearn everything and try again in another place with another culture that has flaws of its own. Not only is this impossible, but it's an extraordinary waste of time.

There is beauty in the absurdity of this cultural norm. Each year, we rediscover hope and determination. We look internally and are aware of what needs change. We name it and make attempts (although often short-lived and unsuccessful) to better ourselves. We learn about ourselves in exchange.

So cheers, everyone. Happy New Year. Here's to cycles of hope and realization, and understanding that while the year may start new, some things will never change.