domingo, 14 de diciembre de 2008
Photos
Photos from first month of travels: http://picasaweb.google.com/rachelinbolivia/AccidentalNomad?authkey=1zJhV9pvBxY#
viernes, 12 de diciembre de 2008
On pruning
Gardening requires a certain kind of ferocity, a willingness to ruthlessly prune away perfectly good and healthy shoots, driven by a vision of what a plant could become.
I am a terrible gardener, both in the garden and in life. I regret the loss of each branch, lingering too long over the task. I've learned in recent years that I must take advantage of moments of exhaustion or emotional deadening to do the dirty work of my life.
Last Friday was one such day. I arrived back from Bolivia somewhat the worse for wear.
My travel home, by the numbers
Hours of anticipated travel: 16
Hours of actual travel: 37
Anticipated trips through immigration or customs: 3
Actual trips through immigration or customs: 9
Trips through airport security: 8
Dollar amount that sparked mutiny among stranded passengers in Chile (yes, Chile): 30
Trips home from Bolivia that have gone according to plan (out of 4 total): 0
Much as I've learned to cultivate my inner grandmother voice to get through swimming, I find that I'm developing an inner Rabina for the times of transition in my life. Rabina is John's irreverent, rude, and insightful Buddhist nun. I often bristle when I hear reports of her logic or pedagogical techniques, but I have to hand it to the woman: she doesn't underestimate the potential of a person to handle hard critique. "What are you asking me for?" Rabina-in-my-head asked with exasperation last Thursday. "You know what you need to do."
So my brief stint at home is a day of pruning and closing doors. I keep it impersonal, anatomical. Make a list; check it off. It isn't until I'm sitting in a plane on the tarmac in Chicago, 2 days later, that I get a chance to grieve, not only what I've cut away, but what it will never grow into. I wish I had a vision of what the shorn plant could look like in a year or ten, but all I see right now is the the stubble of branches.
I fish out of my carry-on bag a broken mp3 player, a musical offering from a friend. The display is cracked, so I have no idea what I'm listening to or what will come next. I find it comforting to be in someone else's hands for a while, if only musically, trusting that something good is coming.
I am a terrible gardener, both in the garden and in life. I regret the loss of each branch, lingering too long over the task. I've learned in recent years that I must take advantage of moments of exhaustion or emotional deadening to do the dirty work of my life.
Last Friday was one such day. I arrived back from Bolivia somewhat the worse for wear.
My travel home, by the numbers
Hours of anticipated travel: 16
Hours of actual travel: 37
Anticipated trips through immigration or customs: 3
Actual trips through immigration or customs: 9
Trips through airport security: 8
Dollar amount that sparked mutiny among stranded passengers in Chile (yes, Chile): 30
Trips home from Bolivia that have gone according to plan (out of 4 total): 0
Much as I've learned to cultivate my inner grandmother voice to get through swimming, I find that I'm developing an inner Rabina for the times of transition in my life. Rabina is John's irreverent, rude, and insightful Buddhist nun. I often bristle when I hear reports of her logic or pedagogical techniques, but I have to hand it to the woman: she doesn't underestimate the potential of a person to handle hard critique. "What are you asking me for?" Rabina-in-my-head asked with exasperation last Thursday. "You know what you need to do."
So my brief stint at home is a day of pruning and closing doors. I keep it impersonal, anatomical. Make a list; check it off. It isn't until I'm sitting in a plane on the tarmac in Chicago, 2 days later, that I get a chance to grieve, not only what I've cut away, but what it will never grow into. I wish I had a vision of what the shorn plant could look like in a year or ten, but all I see right now is the the stubble of branches.
I fish out of my carry-on bag a broken mp3 player, a musical offering from a friend. The display is cracked, so I have no idea what I'm listening to or what will come next. I find it comforting to be in someone else's hands for a while, if only musically, trusting that something good is coming.
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