Stepping Into the Horizon Line

I am in Chajul, a small town in the highlands of Guatemala, where I've spent the past month volunteering for a wonderful and important program called Limitless Horizons Ixil (LHI -- http://limitlesshorizonsixil.org/about-us/). The surrounding mountains of this region often disappear into the thick white fog of the cold and rainy winter season. On rare sunny days, they almost shock me with their patchwork of deep greens. On the in-between days, the fog both obscures and defines the mountains' contours, lying on and nestling into them with what always strikes me as a kind of tenderness. Colors disappear into a broad palette of gray tones. 

I'll be here for another two weeks before returning to the US, and I'm in the sadness, elation, confusion, intensity and freefall of the farewell transition from one kind of unknown into another. My tradition (habit?) has been to write about my voyage in the order in which it has unfolded. That simply makes no sense to me in this moment, two and a half months after my last post and many months behind in writing about the journey I'm on. I'd rather share “where I am now,” and fill in the blanks from the US after my return. 

As I got ready to fly from Peru to Guatemala, I wrote in my journal that this would be my last stop before returning to the US. In the next moment, I realized that it wasn't that at all! Guatemala would be Guatemala, an unknown next set of experiences, joys, challenges and lessons -- and, in spite of the ticket that I planned to buy for my return to the US, this part of my journey had an unknown outcome. Why would I diminish all of that by parenthesizing it in relationship to an anticipated endpoint? 

Crazy! I made a conscious choice to shoot for THIS-HERE-NOW. It was a good choice.

I have a metaphor for this "where I am now" that I want to write about. The metaphor is that I've been in a boat out on the vast ocean. I’m still in that boat and the ocean is still vast, but now I see a distant and approaching shore on the horizon line. It's not a shore in the sense of 'ah, finally landing on terra firma.' (Great word, "landing"; we should also have "oceaning" and “airing.”) In my metaphor, the shore is a different element, and my experience is that of a morphing and blending of elements. I have a sense of being in two places at once, and the balance keeps shifting as I rock and roll along. Really, I am still only here in the boat, but I cannot ignore the land I am approaching. It is part of my THIS.  

On the van back into Chajul yesterday (from an overnight visit to the nearby small city of Nebaj), I gazed out at the passing landscape and found myself thinking about the people I have gotten to know here; the sweetness of the wildflowers; the endless fields and hillsides of hugely tall, dried corn plants; the cows, sheep, horses, donkeys, dogs, chickens, roosters and pigs that are always out on the roads; the seemingly unburdened playfulness of the children; the young age at which the children are already doing truly hard physical labor; the outrageously endless creativity and beauty of the textiles; the deep poverty and traumatic history of this region; the remarkable heart of the people here who are working hard to lift their families and community out of that poverty and trauma. 

Having been in a day-dreamy bliss state there in the van, I surprised myself when I suddenly started to cry. I realized that, in addition to feeling a great sense of loss about my upcoming departure from Chajul and LHI, I was feeling other losses as well: of family members and pets who have died (beings to whom I would not be returning), of friends in other countries to whom I have already said good-bye, and of this extended travel and volunteer experience that is drawing to a close. Though mostly feeling a deep sorrow, I was also feeling a deep love, and a kind of buzzing excitement about the challenges that lie ahead as I move on to the next chapter of unknowns. I was overwhelmed by the richness and intensity of it all, and I cried freely.

Local van transport here is not the comfort van experience of the US. Vehicles built to hold 15 people are routinely chock-filled with up to 30, plus packages, backpacks and plastic baskets that have not been hauled up onto the roof. Depending on one's height, it may not be possible to stand upright in the crush. Roads are often just packed and rutted dirt, so there's lots of bumping along. People get on and off all along the way between starting and end points, and they shift to better seats when possible (i.e., a window seat that allows for leaning one's head to sleep, a seat next to a friend or family member, or any seat at all for those who have been standing). People on this van looked at me with concern, and one man asked if I was okay. I answered honestly and talked with him and the young woman sitting in front of me about my experiences in Chajul. In my baby Ixil I told my indigenous seat neighbors, "Naxh": It's okay.

When I talk with Guatemalans (in the markets and small stores, in people's homes, on the local transportation), they always ask me where I’m from, what I'm doing, how long I have been here, how long I will stay, and when I will return. It always feels like an invitation to come back. In every place I've volunteered, people have asked me to return and I know that I would love to do so. This has led to certain questions that thread through my journey: How can I spend time here again? How can I continue experiencing other parts of the world in which I might like to volunteer? How will I maintain contact with so many people? Is it possible to continue living like this? Can I live like this in the US?

In each of the three countries in which I've spent time, people have said that I should simply marry a native so I can just stay, and this also feels like an invitation. I smile and ask if they have someone in mind. In Lima, after telling me I should marry a Peruvian, my friend then stopped to think about it and changed her mind: she said that a Brazilian would be a better fit for me. I think that would make my Brazilian friends happy. Having never missed the US during my travels (and often actually feeling quite happy to be away from the US), I wonder if I would be capable of actually settling down in another country. 

Though I continue to practice the simple complexity of THIS-HERE-NOW as my departure date approaches, it has been harder and harder to just be here. I sometimes want to run from the roughness of this road -- just get it over with and return to the US -- but I continue to choose the bumps of being inside the transition experience. Today I reminded the children I’ve been working and playing with in the local library that I will be leaving, and I told them that next week would be our last week together. Deep breath. Tears (mine). “Why are you going? When will you come back?” Lots of sly poking and hiding, lots of “Meguita” being called out. The children followed me out into the street, “Meguita! Meguita!” THIS is not easy. 

Right now, the US feels like an end point to me, though I already know that the horizon line is a place at which one never actually arrives. I’m at an age at which job options tend to thin, and I’ve generally tried not to think too far into the future as regards job hunting. I’ve thought about the Peace Corps (Continue with Spanish in Central or South America? Use my Portuguese in Mozambique?), fantasized about returning long-term to a particular quilombo community in Brazil (a future post), and wondered what it would be like to get to know the indigenous communities of the US. I’m clear that I will not return to my former job, even if it is offered to me.

I once talked to an improv friend about the difficulty of leaving improvisation and stepping out “into the real world.” He replied, “What makes you think that this is not real?” and he was right. Part of my THIS is wanting to be true to myself and to what I have learned on this journey regarding what is possible and how I want to live. I have no idea of how I will achieve it. I hope to have the courage to step out joyously into that unknown. 

with love, meg     December 2, 2013