The Marriage of Homesickness and Wanderlust
The way my ears perk up when I hear English, the smile that spreads across my face when I understand the refugee couple on the tram, and the warmth I feel at the smell of a cigarette tell me I have not fully ‘arrived.’ Whatever arrival means. In Zambia, about two years ago, I wrote: Life at the lake is not waking up, loathing the day, and dragging myself from the sweet comfort of bed. Nor is it waking up with an eager mind's eye fixed in the events of the day ahead. It is not with excitement and delight that I go about my business. Nor is it with the drudgery that accompanies duty. No, you will not see me walking round, my face etched with somber obligation, nor will you see a spring in my step (not very frequently anyway). Rather, it is a peaceful sort of submission, this life at the lake. It is putting one foot in front of the other. It is saying “yes” when I'd rather not. It is embracing new kinds of service as best I can. It is keeping my eyes open. It is gro...