A Second Set Of Roots

Things are settling into place, snuggling down into certain grooves and suggesting with their body language that they do not wish to be disturbed. I´m teaching more solidly-- the learning curve still curves, but I´m moving into that less steep section where I can predict pretty well which things will improve and which will be a challenge. I have an internship, officially now, and hence a sense of stability that promises to last until May. (Is it odd that I reveal this information buried amid other mundanities? It´s not that I´m not pleased, just that in retrospect it seems kind of inevitable, already knit into the shape of my days from the beginning.) I´m developing favorite places to eat or sleep or internet. While preparing a lesson for tomorrow about the vocabulary of daily routines, I realized I actually have one. I get up at six. I leave for school at seven and get there between eight and eight thirty. I eat lunch at twelve or one, depending on whether I´m in Santa Maria or Itzapa, and I leave for home at a little after four. I´ve joined a gum where I tend/intend to go after school three or four times a week. I eat dinner at seven. Bedtime fluctuates, but it´s the only total variable in the pattern of my days.

With routine comes a sense of belonging so subtle it´s almost subconscious. The hint of recognition in the eyes of the ladies at the lavandería or the formula of each morning´s greeting ritual with my classes lull me into a timeless feeling, a feeling that my stay here is temporarily eternal. I´m rooting. As soon as I start realizing this, though, an old inspecific longing settles on my shoulders and slips between my ribs. It won´t be satisfied by going out with large groups of fellow volunteers, and it won´t be satisfied by sleeping more, and it won´t be satisfied by spending more time on lesson plans and preparation. It has been allayed by the presence of Celeste, my Portland-afiliated lovely friend with whom I´ve had the sort of generous-hearted and ample conversations filled with stories and tangents and self-analysis that haven´t proved possible yet in this community where every social event is open invitation and most information conveyed to one will reach anyone. Between buñuelos and music exchanges, among fountains and cobblestones and sweet potato burritos and wineglasses filled with living fluttering goldfish, we´ve guided our observations and impressions and deligthed in the exchange. She was the one to diagnose this pesky longing of mine. She told me what I wanted was a second set of roots.

It´s true, of course. When I think of the (dare I say) best periods of my life thus far, it seems I´ve always had at least two worlds, two pools of friends or sources of intellectual stimulation or projects or adventures on the horizon. It affords a kind of multidimensionality-- many levels and kinds of friendship, many ways of engaging the brain, many different channels for hope or frustration or pride. Being here, where so many people are transient and don´t need to forge lasting friendships, where the permanent ones view me as a passing thing, makes it a challenge to discover more outlets for the kinds of connection or effort or conversation I covet.

It does seem the urge to get away usually announces a need to commit more firmly to the place I am. So I´ve assembled a bit of a to-do list, which I will not write because that might jinx it. But it exists. This I guarantee.