esta vida es para mi

so i guess stereotypes are born from some truth.

i'm sitting here, in starbucks, reading.

i'm also listening to macklemore

and wearing birks

with socks. 

ugh.

pnw much?

homesickness is not what this is.

i'm just proud of my culture.

my laid back

tree hugging

adventure seeking

deep conversation craving

good coffee drinking

dog walking

totally tubular 

culture. 

last night i went to a festival of sorts to celebrate mexican culture. 

i watched, along with 2,000 of my closest friends, the lighting of a 

30 foot tall

spinning

red

green

and white

pyrotechnic cactus.

oh yeah, then it shot frickin awesome fireworks into the sky.

it was just the kind of thing that would absolutely never fly state-side.

Viva Mexico!

i love my personal culture

the culture of the pnw,

the 253.

i also love how my culture is forming to be very cosmopolitan.

yesterday, a woman asked me if i wanted some agua de jamaica.

i responded "ee mma."

awks,

not in botswana anymore.

i also do not walk with my head down.

i greet, or at least smile at, every person that i pass.

very setswana of me.

patience has become more than a virtue in my life.

it has become a defining characteristic of my personal culture.

why hurry?

why rush to wait?

so, i sit.

some call it african time.

others latin american time.

i call it my time.

my time that can easily be shared.

though some would argue that this lifestyle is less efficient than the hustle and bustle of the states,

i would argue the opposite.

maybe it depends on your definition of efficiency. 

sure, you might not accomplish as much work.

but you sure as hell will have more meaningful interactions.

those extra two minutes waiting for your coffee can be spent in dialogue with the cashier

or the person behind you in line

or the other individual also waiting for their beverage of choice.

who knows, you might just make a new friend.

or

i guess

you could spend it on your iphone planning out the rest of your day to the 15 minute marker.

life is cool.

why speed through it?

why spend every moment planning the next?

i'd prefer to actually live it.

let's not go forward.

let's not go back.

let's just stay

right 

here.

guadalajara,

what do you have to teach me today?

estoy lista para ti. 

to know and to be known

Wanderlust:

a strong desire to travel.

(Oxford)

Wanderlust:

a strong longing for or impulse toward wandering.

(Merriam Webster)

Wanderlust:

that thing I have that causes me to be in a constant state of transition. 

(Me)

I am loving my time in Guadalajara.

Just like I loved my time in Gig Harbor, Gaborone, Chicago...

Three years,

Four homes.

We could even say five if we count Yelm for the summer of 2013. 

Wanderlust.

It's funny, in a sick kind of way, that this is the life that I have chosen for myself.

But then again, it is not.

Not at all.

Living this way allows me to be completely free.

I move to a new place

with new people

new laws

new history

new language...

new me.

Nobody knows me, not even a little bit.

People know whatever I chose to let them know.

Those of you who have been with me for years know that opening up to people is not something that comes naturally to me. 

In fact, I'm pretty terrible at it.

This fact of my life being true makes my wanderlusty nature extremely convenient.

One might even say that this is the cause of it.

I would argue against that though.

My wanderlust is caused by a strong desire to know others

and by knowing others, know myself.

I watch.

I listen.

I learn.

Wanderlust.

This time, however, is different.

For once, I want to be known.

Transition is great.

I usually love it.

It opens up the doors for innumerable adventures. 

It is during times of uncertainty that I flourish.

I am forced to trust and to be bold.

I leap.

But now, during this season, it would be nice to be know.

When I moved to Guadalajara from Gig Harbor I knew that I would most likely never return.

I knew that my family was moving back to California, but I was not allowed to tell anyone.

It absolutely broke my heart.

I could not inform people because on the off chance that we decided not to move, people knowing that we were planning on moving would cause an immense about of ickyness. 

So I left.

When people asked me when I'd be "home" I would say that I don't know,

not because I still haven't booked a return ticket (which is true),

but because I would not ever be coming "home".

What is home, anyway?

My kids at work would talk about how excited they were to hang out during Christmas break.

Some even began making plans for the following summer.

Parents consistently came up to me during the last few months to tell me of how their kid had "never connected with an adult leader in this way before" or "how being able to maintain a relationship past the summer will be such a great way to show that you're not just another adult that is going to abandon them..."

I would smile and nod.

That's all that I could do, after all.

But hey, why don't you twist that knife a little bit more? 

I'm sure it'll feel great.

When I first found out that there was a chance of us moving, I had a very difficult decision to make:

Do I build meaningful relationships with these kids all along knowing that I am going to have to leave them?

or

Do I solely play the role of facilitator this summer to save myself and the kids from the eventual heartbreak?

I chose to be relational.

Not just because I wanted to know these kids but because I remember how significant the college kids who worked with me were. I would not trade those relationships for anything. 

I guess all I can say is that I'm sorry.

If I hurt anyone I surely did not mean it.

This summer was one of the best and worst summers of my life.

So many incredible ups followed by terrible downs.

Every up, in its own way, was a down.

Joy was quickly turned to sorrow as I realized that this positive memory would only be a memory.

Not a future. 

It was hard.

On top of it all, I was "home" but because of my wanderlusty nature, it was not home.

I was in the harbor, but my heart was still in Africa.

Now, I am in Mexico, but my heart is the harb.

I would like to be known.

Really, I would.

But, at least for now, that does not seem to be in the cards.

Guadalajara, you're one crazy adventure, but shit...

I'm falling for this place

this culture

these people

this language.

But soon I will leave.

That is my life.

That is my love.

That is my burden.

I guess I'm just trying to figure it all out.

But then again, who isn't?