No Day But Today

(written April 2, 2012)

I've been thinking a lot, lately, about what is to come after Peace Corps.  Peace Corps offers non-competitive hiring status in government jobs for a year after completing service, and an RPCV friend told me when I was applying that those jobs would almost all be in Washington, D.C., unless I work as a PC recruiter somewhere else in the country.  Since 2010, then, I've sort of figured that the Capitol city is where I'll end up after August 2013 (being that I have a seat graciously saved at Harvard Summer School for the 2013 term).

And more and more, I think of D.C. not just as "the place I'll be most likely to get a job" but as the place I want to be, for a few years.  I've been there a handful of times; on my last visit, I was also beginning a job search and wrote down names of interesting leads as I meandered through the city streets.  I ended up on the beaches of San Diego that time around, with no regrets, but D.C. lingers as a place I've thought about living in since I was 17 and applying to Georgetown.  Come my return to the U.S., I'll be 29, still unmarried and childless, untethered, fresh from 2 years of grassroots development work in south central Africa.  Why not D.C.?  Why not now?  After two years of thinking about the U.S.A. as her child, looking back at her mother from a foreign telescope, why not plunge into the epicenter of her policy and activity?  As far as work goes, I'm not sure what I'll pursue, but much of what is there--government, think tank, nonprofit, academic--appeals to me, and I know from experience that it might be necessary to clock in some months with a temp agency and part-time or seasonal work, anyway.  (So much for paying off that Ivy League degree...)

Most of my daydreams' hazy focus isn't on the work, anyway.  Instead, I think about what D.C. will offer outside of work.  The Mall, museums (for frizzle!), universities (maybe G'town will forgive me for declining their offer of admission and let me enroll in a continuing education class or, better yet, hire me), restaurants to suit every palate, funky shops, coffee shops.  (I don't really like coffee, I just like the atmosphere.) Diversity--of people, language, economic status.  Public transport.  (G)old friends--in grad school or employed at the White House and in other branches of the government--and shiny new silver friends just waiting to be met.  Clubs and meet-up groups; an LGBT scene.  Hippie commune houses and shared apartments.  Opportunities.  Information.  Activism.  It plays across my mind like a wonderful parade.

It also sounds a bit stressful.  D.C. is lovely when the cherry blossoms paint the trees, but it's still a city, and in the winter/precipitation it can be a cold, wet, sloppy mess.  And those same people full of ideas and idealism and effort and skill can be a crowd of detachment, a throng of briefcases and blackberries and rushing to some Very Important Place To Be.

And right now, I have my own important place to be--a grade 9 classroom, teaching maths; walking along the tarmac with my counterpart, enrolling homes in a mosquito net research study; my own thatched home; cradling a porcelain mug of tea and listening to the radio or reading at nightfall.

I was asked recently--by new PCVs who'd arrived in-country 3 days prior--what I miss the most about America.  "Nothing," I responded, surprised a bit at my own answer.  After a few moments' reflection, I amended it: "Libraries.  A good public library system.  That's what I miss."  (There's another point for the District; hard to do better than the Library of Congress!)

But I have all the books I need; I've read at least four long novels since Christmas.  I give myself plenty of quiet time to devote to the books I find in the informal Peace Corps library, time I might not have in the U.S., even if a copy of every book ever published in America is at my fingertips.  So what do I mean, I miss libraries?

I've never really understood missing.  The concept, I mean.  I've always been a big believer in making your life what you want it to be, in taking action to change whatever is in your power to change to make yourself happy.  If "to miss" means to long for, ache over, wish to be near--well, why not make that happen?  Granted, P.O.W.s don't have such a choice, but many of us do.  But if "to miss" means to think fondly of, crave occasionally, have arise in your memory when triggered by a sound or sight or smell--well, then, certainly I know this well.  I've been too many places, known too many people, not to have them skip through my mind intermittently in a kaleidoscope of recollections and brief yearnings.

Overall, these mental visitors have been welcome and kind, uninhibiting of my current experience.  Do I miss my family?  It'd be poor form to say no.  Certainly I think of them, prioritize opportunities to see them over Skype, even let slide down my cheek a tear or two when I hear voices on the phone describe worries and situations I'm too far away to help (or accomplishments I"m too far to witness).  But do I wish I were with them?  No.  Because I could be--all I have to do is say the word, and Peace Corps will hand me a ticket and have me on a westbound plane within about 48 hours.  But this is where I've chosen to be, for now, and they are where they are supposed to be, as well.  Ipso facto, I'm happy where I am.

Then why am I thinking about Washington well over a year prior to a chance to be there?

I've been accused of wanderlust, a charge I reject if considered a malady but gladly accept if considered a particular brand of delight in the journey.  In the (almost) six years since college graduation, I've worked in 5 states + Zambia, not to mention my forsaken seabound quest.  My first grown-up job lasted 27 months--incidentally, the exact length of time I've committed here--and since then, Zambia holds the record for longest time in residence.  It feels like home here.  And I'm certain I'll miss it when I'm gone.

I want to eventually cultivate the ability to be fully present (Peaceful Warrior-style) in each moment.  To reminisce with affection and foresee with optimism, but to be totally content in the here and now, too.  So far, I've found that the best way to do that is to leave.  To enter each place knowing that my time is limited; to seize opportunities knowing that I may never have them again--because I'll be off seizing others.  When I think about hearing street musicians in lovely Cambridge in July '13, or going to a jazz club in Washington the following autumn, I become newly aware of the voices and drumbeats outside my window--the grade 8 and 9 pupils at the dorms, my siblings singing through the dreariness of a rainstorm, the calypso sound of the Catholic choir in rehearsal.  I look forward to the exhilarating variety of foods available in U.S. supermarkets, even while beaming with pride at my first from-scratch batch of tortillas and loaf of bread, and still tasting the airy lightness of a hot sugar-and-cinnamon crepe fresh from a Parisian street vendor.  I think about all the great theatrical productions I've seen (especially black box shows in the Ex with Stephen) and hope to eventually have the opportunity again to be part of such manifestations of creation and imagination, but I know that right now I have a captive audience--young siblings anxious to play, learn, and grow with me--as well as a front-row seat to a nonfiction drama, one of struggle and triumph and hope, just outside my door every day.

I've been lucky--blessed--to be where I've been.  I have so many hopes and feelings of excitement for wherever I'll go.  I only hope I can remember that at the end, there's no day but today.