The World We Love

Some mornings words spill from my fingertips and tongue without hesitation, without reservation. They are called forth from clarity, further accentuate the crisp colours that define the walls of my village life. Other afternoons they lurch, unsettled, because just like my spirit they feel uncomfortable, unsure.

This is one of those afternoons.

I see myself now through the mirrors of others. I see my transformation through their pauses, their reactions, their perspectives. Living here has made some of my limbs larger. They've refitted out of necessity. And these awkwardly sized limbs seem to grow larger still through their eyes.

I wonder what Kristen I would have been, had I not been here. I wonder what pieces I would lack had I not adorned my mind with the gold and muir of this world. I wonder who I would have loved, how I would have grown, what I would have indulged in, where I might lie. I wonder what life I might lead, did I not lead this one.

I wake and sleep and breathe in a world where life IS. Life is determined. You find joy in what you are given, what you have, instead of seeking, seeking, seeking more. Instead of choosing, choosing, choosing and then wondering in between. And, as a seeker, as a chooser, as a wonderer and a wanderer, it has been a difficult world for me. It is a world in which my limbs grow to awkward sizes, in awkward fashions. It is a world in which my limbs turn my strut to my limp.

And because of limps I walk differently, I pause, I see. My henna stained hands are bruised, calloused, worn in. But only because they have turned so many stones, braced against so many falls, touched so many textures.

Yet this world is one of many. One of many that combine to make mine. I do not belong here. While making chapatis on the fire to the acoustics of chirping parrots is a beautiful belonging, an experience that very few encounter and I have had for six and a half months, it was not one into which I was born. And it is not one I will keep. I will take burnt fingers along with me and I will return "home" to build a new home, to find a new path, to make a new choose. I will keep moving, keep seeking. I will not remain squatting in front of flaming logs, flipping flour as the bread turns from white to gold.

The most terrifying moment of my life was when I realized that my parents were human, that they were flawed, that they too stumbled. That they didn't have a life plan that extended from now until the end of their days. That they too, were seeking. The second most terrifying moment was when I realized that there is no "moment." There is no defining choice, there is no blessed assurance, there is no right or wrong. We are, each one of us, people. And we are, each one of us, continually trying to build a world we love. Both now and then I will be but a human being, a wonderer, a wanderer, a dreamer. I will be but a chooser.

But, with henna worn off my palms, I will be a chooser that knows that it is not the choice but the waiting, the loving, the wanting and the fighting for the choice that give our hands and hearts rest.