Restless Soul

I’m drinking a beer at 1:30 in the morning. First day of school is tomorrow (i.e. today). I’ve got a lesson plan in my head, a syllabus I spent four hours on, and a whole stack of exams left to grade before dawn. “Graduation Day” plays on my trusty iPod.

Just this side of Arkansas, José stopped the car at 2:00 last night so I could kiss the ground of Mississippi. My sister gave me an entire bag full of Beanie Babies with “I [heart] Mississippi” embroidered on them for Christmas. And believe it or not, I feel strangely confident.

I think I figured something out this holiday. Why I end up in places like Mississippi. Because I prefer the stark loneliness of this relative isolation and the vague, hopeful promise of a foreign experience to that smothering loneliness, the vague drowning sensation of home. I mean, it’s great to see the nieces and nephews and all. And it was great to play Boggle, that train game called Ticket to Ride, and shoot Nerf darts at my nephew. You try to appreciate the drama of family and enjoy the happy parts on the surface. But no one really sees me completely for who I am. So better to be unknown—with people I can still surprise. Ever since my time in Africa I have become fascinated with a concept I call “portals”—the way our very identities seem to change so profoundly as we pass between wildly different environments. Meanwhile, the Pacific Northwest becomes even more staggeringly beautiful every time I leave and come back. And it was great to see my friends too. How do you explain? Playing Wii tennis in a crowded living room, traipsing around the tea shop glories of Seattle and Tacoma with an encyclopedic tour guide. Chatting with former girlfriends in some vague magnanimity tangentially related to the Christmas season and all. Blah blah blah. But not one person completely listened to my life and answered these three essential questions: Am I still important—really? Do you still believe in me? And can it—can I?—get better? The world is filled with immense loneliness, and no one knows how to talk about this. On the airplane back to Little Rock, a woman beside me read a romance novel about demons making love.

At home, they treat us like children, and that is what we become. Emotional babies with every physical care provided for. Now we return to the real world—foreign as it is—and become adults again. And actually it feels a whole lot better than we thought it would. At least I think so.

My New Year’s resolution: Be more creative. Less complacent. Plan better. Push myself. Become the teacher I want to be. Tomorrow we start the year off with a game of 20 Questions. They have to guess what’s inside my box full of Beanie Babies! (Thanks to D.L. for the idea.)