Present (and still in awe)

I think this is how we're supposed to be in the world: present and in awe.

Anne Lamott

It’s been a while.

Three weeks-ish, and a lot has happened.

As in, traveling the world and coming home changed, happened.

The question I kept asking myself through the whole trip was: “How can they expect us to go home after this?”

How were we supposed to go home? Back to the everyday life— back to our beds that were comfortable, and rooms that were always well air-conditioned. What were we supposed to marvel at in the hum drum of all the things we’ve seen a thousand times, how were we supposed to handle driving down the road and not frantically pointing out the window gasping at the next breathtaking view to our best friends in the seats next to us.

And so we’re back now, and I’ve found that I’m not very good at it.

I spend almost all of my time wishing I were back where I was before, and watching movies featuring the places we went to. I’ve planned my meals to closely resemble what we ate there, going even as far as to melt chocolate chips to make chocolate croissants. I cry at the stupidest things (Lemoncello lotion and olive oil for instance) and I no longer force myself to stay awake on long car rides like I did in Spain— because I’ve been there before, I’ll probably go there again. I mean, it’s Georgia, I live here.

I don’t know how to be here, back home. And that, for me is the worst part of traveling, it always has been (even passing up the loathing for repacking, but I guess those two things are connected.) I don’t know how to function normally as a changed person in an unchanged atmosphere.

I don’t know how to explain the feeling of pouring your wildly pounding heart out on a stage for people you can’t even see, for nuns who will never leave their cloister. Nuns who have given everything to live solely for God, and you standing there so small, singing their anthem. Singing that only God is enough to people who live that out, and wishing that you yourself would live with that much passion and obedience to His calling.

I don’t know how to explain the views from Montserrat or the hilarious guide from Burgos who casually calls ‘oh well, I hope a car doesn’t come” as you cross the street, one moment and then speaks profound things that make your heart stop the next.

I don’t know how to go from being immersed in a culture that pillages Coliseums to build more Cathedrals, a culture where tour guides and monks speak of God with the same reverence, to a culture where we’d pillage the churches to build more Coliseums. Where being a Christian strongly resembles being a leper, and the wonders you saw don’t mean anything.

And so I don’t. I say, ‘Oh it was good.’ And when they ask what my favorite part was, there’s some halfhearted mention of singing for some really cool nuns who stuck their hands out the grate because they wanted to be seen. When really my insides are screaming, we see you. We see you and we hear you and our hearts are blowing kisses back. And the mere idea of them praying for us like they said, let alone the reality that they are, the sheer magnitude feels so heavy. Like somehow we don’t deserve, I don’t deserve to be mentioned. Yet they did— they invited us in and loved us, as we gazed up watching for movements of light through the grate to try and catch their shadows.

And I don’t live; I don’t adjust.

I’ve been spending my days watching the same movies I’ve seen a thousand times before, a favorite pastime of mine that now seems so dull. And it isn’t the movies that have changed, it’s the viewer.

Maybe I grew so accustomed to the every day new things, every day being the first choir to do that or the first choir to do this, maybe I saw too many of the sites in real life to be drawn into the video version, but what I do know is that there is a beautiful lake in my back yard.

There is a great big back yard filled with trees shimmering with green leaves that dance in the wind and summer light. There are birds chirping and flitting about, my dog chasing and jumping. There is a pool and a family, a sun and a great big beautiful world all around me. And I have somehow forgotten the way it used to make me feel to drive up the road and look out over the lake at the golden sunset. Forgotten the simple pleasure of reading a good book with my toes in the pool. Forgotten how beautiful this world is, even the world that happens to be right next door instead of across an ocean.

There was a quote I posted with a picture of my favorite town we stayed in that reads: “I think this is how we should be in the world: present and in awe.” (Anne Lamott) And that is my lesson, one I’m still learning- that you can’t just be present and in awe in the new and exciting places, or your life will pass you by. You have to wake up every morning in the same old familiar town and choose to be in awe. Consciously look for the beauty, seek out moments of wonder, and most of all you have to be present. Keep the memories and the instances where you could literally feel your life changing and tattoo those words on your skin so you never forget. But don’t lose yourself there. Don’t leave yourself behind when it’s time to come home.

This world is pretty beautiful from any view; don’t lose that glimpse of wonder but don’t forget that the familiar can be pretty spectacular too.

I Can See It Now
What I Learned From the Fourth Row
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