A hot winter
Motivation to write has been low. I don’t know if this is because I don’t have anything to say or if it’s a writer's block just settling in over my head for no reason at all. I find myself struggling to put words to my emotions, to even speak with myself about my thoughts. Which typically means for me it’s time to sit down and force myself to talk a bit. Even if the rambling goes nowhere, at least I’m used to being a conquistador of the useless.
Time is simultaneously crawling and screaming forward with the rest of my service feeling far too short for my objectives while stretching into infinity from my current vantage. During my Afrikaans lesson this morning I said the phrase “Ek gaan na my huis toe” which translates to “I go to my house” or “I am going home”, and then another thought marched right in, where is that? I have become a nomad without quite realizing it. My ties to a specific address or place are tenuous at best, some severed willingly, others without my consent. It is not something I am unused to, to feel unmoored, but despite having existed this way for a long time it still catches you by surprise occasionally. I have managed shallow roots at times but I am far from an oak when it comes to depth. “Home is where the heart is” gets a little more difficult when your brain and heart aren’t on speaking terms. I feel such love for the community here and the beautiful land, but it is not my home. It’s a house for now, but there is none of the complete surrender and assurance of safety that I’ve found once or twice in four walls.
At times I find myself wishing I had never felt it in fact, you can’t miss something you never knew. That’s a thought that never lasts too long though. There is adventure to be had and good to be done as long as I’m strong enough. It’s not all doom and gloom, I’ve begun to find moderate success in some of my programs, my community here is becoming stronger, and I am happy with how well I am taking care of my body and mind. It’s not easy though, I hope none of you have the impression that I’m just easily breezing through life in Africa. I see pictures from home and long for the life I won’t ever return to, the rearview mirror often begs you to turn the car around, but I must go forward. Everyday has its challenges, some are external, some are the shadows within, but in each one I have found my own strength. At least there is plenty of sun.
Love,
Fitz
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
-Dylan Thomas
