Welcome... back?

December, 2013:

I sit here outside my very dear friend's home in Felton, California, where the sun is shining on the tree trunk-sized branches of the huge "live oak" trees (a kind of oak, for those who do not know them); where small birds are flitting, chirping and chattering; where the red-headed woodpeckers hammer their cache of acorns into the holes they've drilled into the massive, thick-barked pines; where the morning frost sits on the rooftops (demarcating the shadows, as my friend pointed out, even as the sun melts the exposed areas); where other dear friends live below (this is their house) with their two silky cats whose dappled fur blends in with the dry-winter colors of the peaceful landscape. I have landed softly here.

The soft landing followed an uneven travel transition. After a tearful farewell in front of LHI, I'd had a long drive with a relaxed and lovely family: a hired driver, his wife and their three children who, by the time they dropped me off at the airport, had graciously invited me to visit them in their home outside Antigua on my next trip to Chajul. When I arrived at the airport just after 9 PM, I was told, "The airport is closed." "You're kidding, right?," I asked, knowing that the man was not kidding. He replied, "Here in Guatemala, the airport closes at 8 PM." Fortunately, there was an area outside the airport's cafeteria where I was able to spend the night, mostly sitting on my backpack on the floor, grateful to have a free indoor place to pass the time till my 7 AM flight.

Having come to associate Guatemala with the Ixil region, I'd lost virtually all sense of being there by the time I'd arrived at the Guatemala City airport. It is modern: large, all right angles, sliding doors, polished metal and lots of glass, digital monitors, people walking about in nondescript clothing while interacting with one or another kind of hand-held technology. There was none of the exquisite traditional textile worn by the women and girls of Chajul and the neighboring towns. Apart from being addressed in Spanish by airport staff (e.g., the security guard who came around at midnight to ask everyone in the cafeteria area -- now closed -- if they were "authorized" to spend the night there), there was little to suggest that I was not sitting on the floor of a US airport.

My transition back to the US had continued with a series of flights, the first of which took me into Houston for my passage through customs, immigration and the agricultural check. The immigration agent who reviewed my entry form was suspicious about my having been in so many countries. Really? All those countries? Was I carrying any tobacco or alcohol? Nine months of travel? Why had I been traveling? Was I carrying any tobacco or alcohol? (Yes, he did ask me again, perhaps thinking he'd catch me in a lie.)

On the immigration and customs form, I had not known how to respond to the question about having visited a farm because I was unsure of the question's intent. I had put a question mark, and this had landed me in the agricultural check area. In a huge room of conveyor belts and luggage scanners, where my entry had interrupted a conversation between the only two people present, I explained to the agriculture agent, "Well, no, I wasn't actually on a farm. But in the town where I lived, the streets were always full of farm animals: cows, horses, pigs, donkeys, chickens, ducks --" He cut me off, "Okay okay. I get it. Did you actually touch any cows? Will you be around livestock here in the US? Fine-okay-you can go." In Houston and then in Los Angeles, the airport staff often struck me as apathetic and stressed, if not actually rude (limited eye contact, sucking of teeth, rolling of eyes, audible complaints about one thing or another). Throughout my travels, really poor people with truly difficult lives had been overwhelmingly warm, kind and positive. I was not feeling happy to be back in the US.

January, 2014:

Having spent two weeks in Felton, nurtured by my generous friend and by nature itself (hmmm, nurtured by nature), I am now house-and-cat-sitting in Santa Cruz. This opportunity arose just before I left Guatemala, which was remarkable timing. My friend in Felton had told me I could stay with him for as long as I wanted -- just as my friends in other countries have said the same -- but it's always hard for me. How much generosity and good fortune can I accept? The airy, sunny and peaceful home in which I am now staying sits at the end of a generally quiet street, has a large backyard with lots of birds, and shares the grounds with a lovely neighbor (whose dog, cat and chickens I also get to enjoy). I love curling up with the cat each night, feeding the birds, and playing with the neighbor's dog.

It's hard for me to put into words what I am experiencing here in the US, and I'm not sure I even fully understand it. What follows are some odds and ends of my experiences and behaviors here, some of them embarrassing or shameful to me.

As soon as I arrived in the US, I craved sugar generally and chocolate specifically. In Felton, I shopped for some food at a mostly organic local food store, lay low for a day or so, reviewed the various financial and other records that my friend had so impeccably kept in my absence, and got into my car (which I was indeed able to drive). I used the car to run errands, because there is no public transportation near my friend's home. I avoided walking around the central street of the downtown area, because I didn't want to deal with the pre-Christmas crowds and the shopping energy, but I did "swing through" Trader Joe's to buy some things I needed. It was shockingly easy to do this. When I finally screwed up enough -- what? courage? -- to enter Costco for the vitamins and calcium I needed (wanted), I found myself picking up and examining jeans and jackets. These are items I do not need at this time, still having the worn but fully functional two pairs of pants with which I traveled for nine months. A friend's son gave me a warm, virtually new jacket, and I was extremely grateful yet found myself thinking, Do I want to get a women's jacket instead of keeping this men's jacket? Fortunately, I did come to my senses. When I went to my storage space to get some warm clothing, I grabbed two pairs of old jeans. Really? Two pairs of jeans? Two? Do I really need two more pairs of jeans? To my horror, I found myself continuing to look at the computer screen in front of which I was sitting when a friend called, even typing something briefly as we talked. I have returned to the gym, where I am thankful to be regaining some strength and flexibility. I have missed living my life in languages other than English. I miss the simplicity and directness of my life in the places I volunteered. I have a different tone of voice here. I went to see a musical for which a friend (in the production's orchestra) had given me a comp ticket, and I appreciated its complex and opulent stage set. I want to see movies. I can't stop noticing the enormous wealth of this country; the word "obscene" comes to mind. I am an active participant in all of this.

WHO AM I???

I talked with two friends from another country, about what it was like for them to be immigrants here. In particular, they are from a very warm, relationship-based, gracious and slower culture. I felt that I have some sense now of what they are missing. One of the friends talked about his experiences being/having a housemate in the US. He said that, in his country, housemates share everything; in the US, people decide whose shelf is whose in the refrigerator. I could relate to that entirely, having experienced the former during my travels, and the latter in my own shared living situations in the US. The refrigerator shelf now feels like a huge metaphor for so much of how we live in the US.

As soon as I landed in the US, I felt as if my almost nine months of life elsewhere had been erased. It was so easy to re-enter a way of moving, talking, interacting. At the same time, I often feel outside myself, noticing and questioning how I move, talk and interact. Some people have welcomed me "back," and I don't quite know what that means. Apart from rejoining some specific communities (e.g., a women's solstice circle, the theater improvisation community), I am not "back." I don't live here and I don't work here, yet I am not visiting here. There is an important chapter of my life unfolding here as I figure out what is next. I don't yet know where "what is next" will unfold, but I suspect it will not be here in Santa Cruz. When I do get "back," where will that be?

with love, meg         January 7, 2014