Thursday rain, coffee, and these four walls
I think I have three different blogs on rotation. None of them right; none of them consistent. None of them come close to capturing whatever it is I'm trying to capture. And I am trying to capture....something. Indisputably elusive.
But I am persisting, if only because I don't know what else to do. It's occasionally clear that my words need to go somewhere. Conversations recently with a cherished friend, one of those truly special ones who has grown with me through the years, have invigorated desires to share in some form, regardless of all the curious insecurities that come along with the "simple" act of distilling words from thoughts; and there are many.
My life is currently placed in Colombia. Right outside Medellin, in the suburb of Sabaneta. It is safe and feels like a small town, nestled in the mountains like most of Medellin. There are tall apartment buildings scattered between low-lying buildings, houses and apartments and tiendas that have sat stubbornly for centuries. The back window of our apartment, on the 6th floor, looks out on the town square, heavily treed with a large white church, from which bells toll every hour. The square is constantly buzzing, save at 5am when I am awake and getting ready for work. It is inhabited by brash, bold pigeons, too lazy and spoiled to fly, and tribes of old, lined men, chiseled in the face and all looking like replicas of each other or else, permanent fixtures of the square. Lines of open-front restaurants frame the square on every side, spreading scents and music thick out onto the street.
I walk ten minutes to school, passing the square every morning, usually when there's still mist playing up at the tops of the mountains, the sky is still new pink, and pigeons are being startled into flight, rustling and fussing and cooing like the winged busybodies they are. I walk back home between 1 and 3 every day, this time when life is in full swing.
There's magic here and there's also grit. I am used to the stages of knowing a new home. The process is more magnified here. The last few days only I have found myself becoming tired of not being able to explain myself or say more than a few words to people; tired of the different; tired of being out of my element. I vacillate between wanting to throw myself in deep, and wanting to step out and simply watch, a patron of the museum. Some days I sit in the teachers' office and read. Or scroll. Or just observe. Other days, I try to string words together when the teachers walk by. I'm afraid they think I am reclusive and unwilling to learn their language. Maybe I am both. I still speak entirely too much English, since I am always around friends who speak English. Before coming, I imagined myself being far more willing to immerse. Not even just imagined; I committed myself, mentally, to trying again and again and again to speak the language, to know the people, to know my surroundings. Some days I make the choice, other days I hide.
But I am persisting, if only because I don't know what else to do. It's occasionally clear that my words need to go somewhere. Conversations recently with a cherished friend, one of those truly special ones who has grown with me through the years, have invigorated desires to share in some form, regardless of all the curious insecurities that come along with the "simple" act of distilling words from thoughts; and there are many.
My life is currently placed in Colombia. Right outside Medellin, in the suburb of Sabaneta. It is safe and feels like a small town, nestled in the mountains like most of Medellin. There are tall apartment buildings scattered between low-lying buildings, houses and apartments and tiendas that have sat stubbornly for centuries. The back window of our apartment, on the 6th floor, looks out on the town square, heavily treed with a large white church, from which bells toll every hour. The square is constantly buzzing, save at 5am when I am awake and getting ready for work. It is inhabited by brash, bold pigeons, too lazy and spoiled to fly, and tribes of old, lined men, chiseled in the face and all looking like replicas of each other or else, permanent fixtures of the square. Lines of open-front restaurants frame the square on every side, spreading scents and music thick out onto the street.
I walk ten minutes to school, passing the square every morning, usually when there's still mist playing up at the tops of the mountains, the sky is still new pink, and pigeons are being startled into flight, rustling and fussing and cooing like the winged busybodies they are. I walk back home between 1 and 3 every day, this time when life is in full swing.
There's magic here and there's also grit. I am used to the stages of knowing a new home. The process is more magnified here. The last few days only I have found myself becoming tired of not being able to explain myself or say more than a few words to people; tired of the different; tired of being out of my element. I vacillate between wanting to throw myself in deep, and wanting to step out and simply watch, a patron of the museum. Some days I sit in the teachers' office and read. Or scroll. Or just observe. Other days, I try to string words together when the teachers walk by. I'm afraid they think I am reclusive and unwilling to learn their language. Maybe I am both. I still speak entirely too much English, since I am always around friends who speak English. Before coming, I imagined myself being far more willing to immerse. Not even just imagined; I committed myself, mentally, to trying again and again and again to speak the language, to know the people, to know my surroundings. Some days I make the choice, other days I hide.
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