For one, it’s no longer strange to speak Spanish all day. I used to wake up each morning and dread the mental punishment of translating my thoughts into another language. Now, it’s no big thing. In fact, my inner monologue sometimes slips into Spanish. That’s a little surreal. On that note, I sometimes will wake up with a clear memory of an amazing or bizarre dream, but with no idea whatsoever which language it was in. In fact, you (my friends and family) are all perfectly bilingual when you show up in my dreams. Congratulations!
Language is not the only thing that’s become more comfortable. Many things that seemed so strange at first have become my new normal: two-hour commutes on the train, getting very little sleep, watching my back. I’ve also gotten to know most of the people in the four blocks between my house and church, and it’s not uncommon to hear my name (“Cristian!”) shouted from the bakery, the laundry detergent store, the fruit stand, or any of the various second-floor apartment windows. It always reminds me of the song “These are the people in your neighborhood” from Sesame Street, which I sometimes whistle as I walk down my street.
Finally, I’ve lost count of how long I’ve been here (last night I counted nearly seven months), but not of how long I’ve got left (exactly fifteen weeks from today). And I know that remaining time is going to fly. Months disappear by in the blink of an eye, and as I become more aware of just how little time I’ve got left here, I’m trying to squeeze all of the juice I can out of each day. I’ve learned many things here in Argentina, but probably the most profound has been the importance of living every moment to its fullest. And that is certainly something that I plan to bring home with me—exactly fifteen weeks from today.
Thursday, April 1, 2010
Climbing toward a new window on the world
As a part of our second retreat, we set off one morning on a day hike up a small mountain near our campsite. Aside from being a great time (and a good workout!), the climb served as a metaphorical halfway point for our year in South America. As we made our ascent, I thought of how our first few months here had indeed often seemed like an uphill struggle—following a rocky, sometimes unclear path along which every step required extraordinary focus and energy, and moving toward a place that we knew would be worthwhile but that was yet unknown.
Slowly but surely we climbed— helping each other over the rough patches—until we finally arrived to behold la Ventana, a natural rock window that sits at the top of the mountain and gives the place its name. Looking down through the window, we could see the entirety of the path we had ascended; the many steps (and missteps) of our journey finally made sense once we had reached our destination. We could also look out over the sunflower-drenched plains and contemplate the vastness of the world spreading out before us.
From this height—and at this point in our mission year—the landscape had a certain peace about it, and I was both humbled and inspired by its greatness. A few fellow hikers pointed out that the form of the window was eerily similar to a map of Argentina, and the significance of seeing the world from an Argentine point of view was not lost on me.
We didn’t have much time at the top, however; as clouds gathered and rain started to fall, we barely had time to catch our breath before it was time to make our way down again. And if you haven’t had enough metaphors already, this leg of the journey was literally dripping with significance!
Although the drizzle made the way slippery and our steps unsure, the knowledge and intuition we had acquired on our way up nevertheless served us well on our way back down. Rocks that had once seemed foreboding now served as landmarks, and the signs that had counted up from one to ten now accompanied us down as friendly faces along a well-worn path. Being familiar with the terrain made it easier to appreciate the beauty around us. More and more, I can also feel this coming true for my other ‘landscapes’ here in Argentina.
By evening we arrived back at the same place where we had started—our campsite—but we now saw it with new eyes. It was still our home, but because of our journey we could better appreciate its position in relation to its greater surroundings. It was just a day hike, but I hope that our rapidly approaching return to the United States will likewise live up to the words of T.S. Eliot:
With the drawing of this Love and the voice of this Calling
We shall not cease from exploration
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time.
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