Feelings Here

Feelings Here

Walking from our office to the lower dining hall for lunch this afternoon I was struck with a feeling I hadn’t realized previously—the feeling that all was as it should be. Walking around campus this past week I’ve been constantly aware of my surroundings, which I don’t think is a bad thing, but which created the sense that I might not be able to fully relax or simply be in these new surroundings. But today on the way to the kitchen I caught myself simply walking, simply moving and being here, enjoying a sense of unawareness which of course ceased to be the second I noticed it, but which I can reflect on nevertheless, and take as a sign that I will be able to feel somewhat at home here during these few months. It occurred to me then to use this as a concept for the next essay assignment for class. I want to create contexts within which our students can write informative pieces about SECMOL and Ladakh. Their last assignment was to reflect and write on where they are from, through the use of a particular object, place or concept from any point in their past—touching on the idea that leaving a place puts that place into a much clearer perspective. The results were beautifully executed reflections on family life, childhood, friends—using simple symbols like cars or trees or tomatoes. Now, I think our students have been here long enough to think about some of the things that make them feel “at home” here in Ladakh, and the things that make them feel far from home. I hope this would produce some more pieces full of emotion and color, and some information about life here that couldn’t be obtained through simple brochures or the like.

What makes me feel at home? The smiles from the Ladakhi students and staff here—rarely can I spot so much as a trace of hesitation in a smile when my ju-le or hello is returned in the greenhouse, by the cow shed or on the way to the dining area. The willingness of the local students to include all of us in their music and dancing on Thursday nights, their singing of traditional Ladakhi songs during dinner, and their excitement about our idea to throw a Valentine’s Day party in the big hall just for fun—these things make me feel at home. That I could give a piano lesson today—one of my points of satisfaction back home—let me feel appreciated for what I can share. (It is simple enough to share what you already know, but not always easy to recognize the value in this to someone else.) The very nature of living here, virtually free from the risk of waste and every opportunity to lead a healthy lifestyle—this way of living makes me feel comfortable, and though this lifestyle is different from mine at home, it captures some of the things I had been striving for with much greater difficulty. The mountains around us, the Indus winding through them, the transplanted poplars by its banks, the snow blanketing the poplars’ roots—this is the landscape in which I will experience the feelings of being and doing what I should.

But inevitably, this is the backdrop of my fears, my pain, that which I could not leave behind no matter where I traveled. The sense that I am here as one person with a vague goal and no straight path, the knowledge that I am surrounded by unfamiliar faces, no matter the depth of the creases that seem to ripple outward from all of their smiles. The idea that I am accepting my food on a plate that passes through the hands of so many others each week—this is an idea which I accept well enough, but reminds me that I am living on a campus—yes, in a community full of positive spirit and growth—but not in the community I have become a part of during the last eight years in Baltimore, and not a short drive from my family.

Last week there was a feeling—I’m not even sure I realized that it was there until after it was gone. After I had responded to a few e-mails, composed a blog, and posted a few photos, I had a great sense of relief at having managed contact with “the outside world,” and realized that I had been experiencing a feeling of helplessness in my position. I’ve since come up with a better plan for composing blogs and such, I don’t feel so disconnected, and can more fully enjoy my position.

And there’s the nagging feeling of time tugging at my sleeve, sometimes when I turn the page of a book and simultaneously experience the satisfaction at having absorbed another page of knowledge, and the unsettling sense of wonder at what else I could have achieved in those minutes. Again, a balance is achieved in the acceptance of our own limitations along side the realization of our potential.