With a sense of wonder...

Four years ago today I sat around a wonderfully crowded dinner table in the home of my Syrian hosts and their Iranian guests enjoying a lavish holiday meal enjoying the overlapping conversations about politics, history, agriculture, and education abroad. My hosts were Sunni Muslims, their guests were Shi'a, and while I was raised a Lutheran my beliefs could more accurately be described as being of logic and science. One of the things that had drawn me to Syria was it's status as a secular state and the seeming ease with which various branches of Islam, Christianity, and to a small degree Judaism could coexist in a region where co-existence is rarely easy.

I spent two months living in Syria and have regretted leaving so soon since the moment I realized my plans for an imminent return trip were falling through. When this conflict started almost two years ago, I'm ashamed to admit I avoided the news and tried to ignore it. In the short time I was there I became quite attached to the place and the people. The thought of violence and warfare upon streets which I knew by heart was simply too disturbing. But mostly I was stupefied. I couldn't understand how a country that had seemed so stable and was in the midst of a slow but visible modernization could fall into such chaos. I have more thoughts on the politics and the fallout, but that is not what I wish to write about today. Today is a day of hope and love.

Grandmother and children in Idlib, Syria, January 2009.

Last night while watching my nephew's face light up both literally and metaphorically
with the candlelight church service I was reminded of a little boy I met in Syria who had that same unfiltered joy and wonder in his eyes (upon seeing his own face on my camera). That little boy lived in Idlib on a small rural farm with his siblings and cousins. While visiting with a fellow researcher, I had tea with the men of the farm while my colleague, Micheal, translated. Afterwards, I had the unique experience of visiting with the women and children. Michael was the only person in the group who could translate, and he did not accompany me. I spoke only a small bit of Arabic, enough to talk about family and my travels, the inevitable first questions. For thirty minutes the children and I pantomimed and giggled while my camera played a central role as entertainment. Their grandmother watched quietly, her eyes smiling to see the children playing.

I have a print of this photo at my parents house. I caught myself staring at it the other night, wondering where these children are, if they are safe, hoping the eldest hiding in the background is not now old enough to be involved in the fighting. Yet these children give me hope. It is always the way, but it will be the children who grow up in this internet connected world, making friends with people worldwide without politics/race/religion in their minds that will bring about change. As long as there are children with that look of unbridled wonder in their eyes, there will be a better tomorrow, for with a sense of wonder great things are possible.

Definition of a journey

"I suggested that a journey was a kind of story in itself, providing one had the will to read it, just as a story too could be a journey, providing one had the experience to bring to it, and that both found their mark differently in different people." - An Unexpected Light, Jason Elliot.

I just spent twenty minutes searching old journal notes, blog entries and emails to find this quote, as I left the book behind with a friend in Syria 4 years ago. A new copy will be arriving on Wednesday as I think I must read it again. I originally stumbled upon it in a corner bookshelf overflowing with books in this wonderfully cramped used bookstore, itself lodged in the corner of a zig zagging Istanbul market street. Elliot was a young audacious traveler who decided at the beginning of the Soviet invasion of Afghanistan that he wanted to help, to see the war for himself and document it. He managed to get himself smuggled into the country and his tale was a well written, heartfelt textbook of sorts for my own endeavors to understand the Middle East as an outsider.

Rereading this quote has me thinking about the meaning of the word "journey." Before I left back in 2008, every time I'd head down 19th ave on my way to Target or Belgrade it was all I could do not to hit the highway, run, take what cash I'd saved and not look back. It wasn't that my life was bad. I loved it, actually. I had two jobs I enjoyed, was making enough money to save towards travel, I had awesome friends (still do!) and my family was almost all within a few hours drive. But I needed an adventure. I needed a story to tell. I needed a journey.

About the time I returned I discovered another great quote.

"There is a special sadness at the end of a journey. For it is only when you get to your destination that you discover the road doesn't end here after all." - Two Caravans

About twenty four hours after I returned, I itched for another adventure. I needed a journey, I just didn't know what it was. A year later I left again on an open roadtrip, no destination, no plan, choosing directions by the flip of a coin. It was a short lived journey but one which redirected my paths. Fast forward a while and I find myself a semi-proud owner of a Massachusetts drivers license, living in Cambridge, earning my PhD, yet constantly on the lookout for my next plane ticket. And I've done quite well on that count, in a way. Since moving to Boston barely a year ago I've traveled to Montana four times, Utah, Colorado, New York, DC, Pennsylvania twice, and Virginia. I have plans for Utah, Montana, London, and maybe Michigan, Colorado and Scotland as well in the next six months or so. But each trip has been set, planned, short, complete with itinerary and return ticket. I'm starting to crave an open ended runaway, the tantalizing dream of disappearing abroad with no return ticket and a coin to flip.

But when I read the Jason Elliot quote again a new thought struck me. Perhaps "journey" doesn't have to involve TSA, bag checks, customs agents, passports and one way tickets. A little over a year ago I packed up and move from the state where I've lived my whole life, minus travel time, and moved across the country to a city where I knew no one to start on the biggest goal I've set for myself yet. I've learned more about life and myself in the last year than I ever did abroad or in the "find yourself" college years. I've struggled to change parts of me I didn't like and realized that some of those things don't need to be changed. I see my goals getting closer, morphing, and the challenge is wonderfully thrilling.

Perhaps a journey is what happens when you strive to make your life into a story worth telling.

An hour well spent

I met an interesting man today. I was slacklining in South Boston near the water and noticed an older man with one leg walking past me on crutches and watching my antics. He sat nearby and after I took down the line he complimented me on my unique activity and asked about slacklining. Though I was planning on returning to work, I was intrigued.

He told me about how he'd lost his leg to cancer as a boy and how surviving had taught him two things; that he was lucky to be alive, and that he was different. Doctors told him he'd never ride a bike. With the simple addition of a stirrup to the pedal, he was soon faster than his friends. He had never skied before, but decided to try that as well. He has been a 9-5 robot, a magician, a comedian, a business owner, a writer, a producer, and all times an adventurer. We talked about how fear holds people back, how meaningless it is to work for a paycheck rather than a passion. We commiserated on the pandemic known as 'boredom', rejoiced at the magical thing that is the human brain, and agreed that the most beautiful things in life just seem to come together of their own accord.

His simple question turned into a nearly two hour conversation. And to think, I could have spent that time at my computer in an air conditioned office reading papers and drinking coffee.

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'The point is to play a beautiful game.' - Patrick Rothfuss