The darkness of that night still creeps up on me. In those final moments, one cannot put together words to express gratitude for the experiences of 3 years. And so, my once fumbling hands move gracefully to simply sign blessings, make light of an intensely sad moment, and reassure that I shall "never forget". Hugs, handshakes, kisses on the cheek. My bags are ready. My tickets are ready. The truck is ready. But I am not.
I have no tears left to cry. For 2 months, they have been my lullaby, but their melody is extinguished tonight. I sit stoically and try to remember how to smile. Spontaneously, sound drops out of the air, and I feel it hit me hard though I cannot hear it. The truck begins to move, and though my body is in it, I remain stationary. I imagine that somehow, my atoms, molecules, cells, tissues have bonded to the school in Salt, Jordan. The affinity is too strong, and they tear away, holding a fragment of my self frozen and imprinted in that space and time.
The experience was similar to when young, deafblind Bashar died. Chronology implodes, a chaotic showering of past, present, and supposed future that bombards my hardly lucid mind. It is this shearing of the timeline that produces the multiplicity: Imprisoning me in that truck, jettisoning me on the paved school ground, and projecting my yet to be discovered self to an undetermined destination.
Past self waves goodbye to present self, and says, "Thank you. More is yet to come, keep moving."
Present self looks despairingly at past self. The past does not take advice.
My past spins the world underneath him, reveling in the blessings of years lived. Truly lived. No longer caring about the failures, the shortcomings, the inadequacies. He values the lessons, and can now see the beauty produced. My present pauses for a moment of tranquility. Growth over perfection. Faith over security.
And I drove away. Two and a half months later, I do feel that a significant part of me still lingers there in Salt. Daily, wisps return to me in exchange for other pieces. I am back in the US, adjusting to life here and the many differences from living in Jordan.
Most days, I feel I don't belong here. And it isn't because of the people. And it isn't because of my job. And it isn't because of the many familiar things that I am inexplicably estranged from, apart from. There isn't an external "because". I have returned, fundamentally changed by my experience abroad, which puts me on a different frequency than everything around me. Occasionally, I find a resonance that allows me to feel partially in-sync, but that feeling is fleeting. At best, I twist and contort to squeeze into the position that I used to occupy, but can no longer identify with.
So, Jordan gave me a window. And I looked out in awe, frustration, and appreciation. I could see much, and built the courage to venture out and live to an extent I had not know before. A life lived is a natural wonder. And now I am in the US, and I feel that all I have is a mirror. I look in and hardly recognize myself, as I am preoccupied with the view of what is behind me. But, each day it becomes easier to put down the mirror and step outside so that I can continue beyond a reflection, becoming a clarified image of the projection that I saw on that early morning in July when I left Jordan.
I am studying to get a M.Ed. in Special Education, but sometimes I am not sure that I am learning as much as I was learning in Jordan (but it is academic, which I am thankful for). I am working with kids with severe special needs, but most days I feel they are not in as much need as the children in Jordan. I have to learn a new sign language, find my way in the American education system, and get to know a new group of students, which tips the scale and negates much of the experience I had working with deafblind children in Jordan. This makes me feel less valuable, less effective, and utterly useless most of the time.
The reality is that I will never accomplish anything similar to what I did in Jordan. Mohammed, my son, you are the amazing student that any teacher wishes to have. To, for the first time in my life, meet a 17 year old congenitally deafblind boy that couldn't use language, count, read, spell, or make choices, then be given the freedom to spend 12 hours a day working with him. We did everything together. I saw him spell his first word. I saw him take numbers out of the classroom. I saw him read words, letter by letter. I saw him develop the language needed to ask questions and request help. I saw him pray with more conscientiousness than I ever use when I pray. And, a couple weeks before I left, I saw him help write a book about our 3 years together. I celebrated with him, as for the first time in life he could tell people that, "Today is July 11, it is my birthday, and I am 20 years old! This is my birthday party!". I don't think many teachers get to walk side by side with a student on such an incredible journey.
Even more, I was able to experience all these things in a community of people who had a very different culture, perspectives, and beliefs. And, over time, I formed relationships with them, came to love them, and made my home among them.
But, as I look in the mirror, I see that the vulnerability of my present reflection is very similar to that past self so far behind me. That past self that showed up at a school in Jordan to teach English, and ended up losing his hands under the hands of a deafblind friend. The circumstances are admittedly different, but the mindset need not be. I went to Jordan because I wanted to put aside the things I was comfortable with and allow God to work through me. To have faith that I could live for God, and that I could find a way to love and serve others without letting myself get in the way. Now, I have another opportunity for the same kind of faith to take hold. I don't yet know if I'll ever go back to Jordan, or how my experience there will continue to shape me. Will I remain a teacher, work on international development, or become a consultant? But faith allows me to carry on in the present, put down the mirror, and be content at having a projection that lacks clarity.
I thank God for the blessings of my time in Jordan. I thank all of you who supported me during that time, reading about my experiences and offering prayers. The time has come, though, for this blog to be concluded. I have decided that I will not continue to write as I encounter these new challenges in Boston during my study and continued work in special education. Perhaps this cessation will give me time to begin my book....I do not yet know.
Peace.
I have no tears left to cry. For 2 months, they have been my lullaby, but their melody is extinguished tonight. I sit stoically and try to remember how to smile. Spontaneously, sound drops out of the air, and I feel it hit me hard though I cannot hear it. The truck begins to move, and though my body is in it, I remain stationary. I imagine that somehow, my atoms, molecules, cells, tissues have bonded to the school in Salt, Jordan. The affinity is too strong, and they tear away, holding a fragment of my self frozen and imprinted in that space and time.
The experience was similar to when young, deafblind Bashar died. Chronology implodes, a chaotic showering of past, present, and supposed future that bombards my hardly lucid mind. It is this shearing of the timeline that produces the multiplicity: Imprisoning me in that truck, jettisoning me on the paved school ground, and projecting my yet to be discovered self to an undetermined destination.
Past self waves goodbye to present self, and says, "Thank you. More is yet to come, keep moving."
Present self looks despairingly at past self. The past does not take advice.
My past spins the world underneath him, reveling in the blessings of years lived. Truly lived. No longer caring about the failures, the shortcomings, the inadequacies. He values the lessons, and can now see the beauty produced. My present pauses for a moment of tranquility. Growth over perfection. Faith over security.
And I drove away. Two and a half months later, I do feel that a significant part of me still lingers there in Salt. Daily, wisps return to me in exchange for other pieces. I am back in the US, adjusting to life here and the many differences from living in Jordan.
Most days, I feel I don't belong here. And it isn't because of the people. And it isn't because of my job. And it isn't because of the many familiar things that I am inexplicably estranged from, apart from. There isn't an external "because". I have returned, fundamentally changed by my experience abroad, which puts me on a different frequency than everything around me. Occasionally, I find a resonance that allows me to feel partially in-sync, but that feeling is fleeting. At best, I twist and contort to squeeze into the position that I used to occupy, but can no longer identify with.
So, Jordan gave me a window. And I looked out in awe, frustration, and appreciation. I could see much, and built the courage to venture out and live to an extent I had not know before. A life lived is a natural wonder. And now I am in the US, and I feel that all I have is a mirror. I look in and hardly recognize myself, as I am preoccupied with the view of what is behind me. But, each day it becomes easier to put down the mirror and step outside so that I can continue beyond a reflection, becoming a clarified image of the projection that I saw on that early morning in July when I left Jordan.
I am studying to get a M.Ed. in Special Education, but sometimes I am not sure that I am learning as much as I was learning in Jordan (but it is academic, which I am thankful for). I am working with kids with severe special needs, but most days I feel they are not in as much need as the children in Jordan. I have to learn a new sign language, find my way in the American education system, and get to know a new group of students, which tips the scale and negates much of the experience I had working with deafblind children in Jordan. This makes me feel less valuable, less effective, and utterly useless most of the time.
The reality is that I will never accomplish anything similar to what I did in Jordan. Mohammed, my son, you are the amazing student that any teacher wishes to have. To, for the first time in my life, meet a 17 year old congenitally deafblind boy that couldn't use language, count, read, spell, or make choices, then be given the freedom to spend 12 hours a day working with him. We did everything together. I saw him spell his first word. I saw him take numbers out of the classroom. I saw him read words, letter by letter. I saw him develop the language needed to ask questions and request help. I saw him pray with more conscientiousness than I ever use when I pray. And, a couple weeks before I left, I saw him help write a book about our 3 years together. I celebrated with him, as for the first time in life he could tell people that, "Today is July 11, it is my birthday, and I am 20 years old! This is my birthday party!". I don't think many teachers get to walk side by side with a student on such an incredible journey.
Even more, I was able to experience all these things in a community of people who had a very different culture, perspectives, and beliefs. And, over time, I formed relationships with them, came to love them, and made my home among them.
But, as I look in the mirror, I see that the vulnerability of my present reflection is very similar to that past self so far behind me. That past self that showed up at a school in Jordan to teach English, and ended up losing his hands under the hands of a deafblind friend. The circumstances are admittedly different, but the mindset need not be. I went to Jordan because I wanted to put aside the things I was comfortable with and allow God to work through me. To have faith that I could live for God, and that I could find a way to love and serve others without letting myself get in the way. Now, I have another opportunity for the same kind of faith to take hold. I don't yet know if I'll ever go back to Jordan, or how my experience there will continue to shape me. Will I remain a teacher, work on international development, or become a consultant? But faith allows me to carry on in the present, put down the mirror, and be content at having a projection that lacks clarity.
I thank God for the blessings of my time in Jordan. I thank all of you who supported me during that time, reading about my experiences and offering prayers. The time has come, though, for this blog to be concluded. I have decided that I will not continue to write as I encounter these new challenges in Boston during my study and continued work in special education. Perhaps this cessation will give me time to begin my book....I do not yet know.
Peace.
