On risk-taking

I have been thinking a lot lately about risks. This is related to the very uncertain situation in which I find myself. In a nutshell, it is this: I am in the United States without a plane ticket to Morocco, and my husband is in Morocco without a plane ticket to the United States. He could buy a one-way ticket and bring all of our stuff with him to the U.S., but if he doesn't get a job offer, he'll have to buy two more one-way tickets, and we'll have to move all of our stuff back to Morocco. He could buy a two-way ticket and come here without our stuff, but then if he gets a job offer, he'll have to go back to Morocco, get our stuff, and then come back here and then move to our new (but still hypothetical) home.

Anything we do at this point involves risk, and we are not big risk-takers. The last big risk we took (and I'm still amazed we were ever able to make the decision to do this) was over two years ago when I quit my job without either of us having a job lined up. Soon after, T was offered the position in Morocco, and things turned out okay. But we were different then, and the economy was different then. I want to think that he could buy a one-way ticket and pack up our belongings and come here--now. That's what I want because I miss him terribly and because I'm ready to move on from Morocco. The universe doesn't owe us anything, though, and there's no reason to assume that one or both of us could find gainful employment here. If we stay in Morocco, we have an income, but I will stop making progress toward my new career. If we come here, we might not have an income, and T would stop making progress in his career.

It makes me think a lot about this poem. Choosing a path is always a risk, but we must choose nevertheless.

On celebrating the Fourth of July in America

There are a lot of things I've wanted to write about over the last week and a half, but time is really getting away from me. So I guess I'll just start with the present: the Fourth of July, Independence Day in the United States of America.

The day isn't over yet, but my celebration of it is. And today I had the most traditional celebration that I can remember for years. It involved hot dogs and hamburgers and chips and potato salad and pie as well as people wearing red, white, and blue.

I celebrated the day with several members of my "cohort" here in Kentucky. It was quite different from my slightly ironic Fourth of July celebration last year, when I went out for hamburgers in Ifrane with a group of fellow Americans (although I didn't have a hamburger, of course).

We were all expatriates there. Here, I don't know what I am. I am trying to move back to the United States, but it's more because I want to find out whether or not I still want to live here than because I know I want to live here.

I'm lucky to have a friendly and inclusive group of classmates, but the truth is that I often feel left out, or out of place with them. I am experiencing more disorientation and culture shock than I thought could be possible after only two years of living overseas.

I am experiencing this at every level. Grocery shopping takes me forever. I'm shocked by the lack of pedestrians or bicyclists in this town (and I don't think it's just because the temperature has been in the 100s [Fahrenheit] over the last few days). I'm irritated by the number of rules related to safety (today the pool in my hotel is closed because the pH is off). I'm saddened by the ridiculous political divisions. I'm angered by the unnecessary costs of healthcare. I'm disgusted by all the unhealthy food. I'm bored by conversations about smelly armpits and leg hair. I don't know what this Magic Mike movie is, and I don't know when "frozen yogurt" became "fro yo.” I don't know when everyone in the country got a smart phone and a GPS and stopped being able to read maps.

I’m left now with a lot of open-ended questions and very little time to reflect on them (which is another disorienting aspect of being here). So: situation normal.

Happy Independence Day, everyone. May you be free to discover and celebrate your own definition of freedom.

A lesson

Sometimes I think of my nearly two years here as nothing but one big lesson.

The lesson is this: Make plans, but recognize that planning is just something to keep you busy, a hobby of sorts. Don't take your plans seriously. (As my housekeeper Hafida would say, "My God has a plan for you." Perhaps this is true, but if so, "her" God isn't letting me in on that plan at all.) Don't get attached (to plans, to friends, to the past or future, or to anything else). The idea that one can have control is an illusion, and attachment to that illusion brings nothing but unhappiness. (Funny that I should come to a Muslim country to learn a seemingly Buddhist lesson.)

This lesson has been driven home in a variety of ways, some of them quite painful, over the last couple of weeks, as if Morocco is afraid I might not "get it" before I head out on June 9--regardless of whether or not I'm coming back.

This morning, for example, T and I are sitting on our couch when we thought we'd be (scratch that--planned to be) halfway to Al Hoceima for a four-day vacation in honor of our June 1 tenth wedding anniversary (and because we have just a few more days together before I leave for at least two months).

Planning this trip has been fairly typical; for example, even yesterday, we were still trying to confirm our car rental. We asked the guy to bring the car to us this morning at 8:30, hoping that meant we'd have it by 10. He called at 8:30 to say the car hadn't yet been returned to him, and we haven't heard from him since. Our residence manager and security officer are trying to help get us a car, but I have accepted that it just might not happen. We'll probably get one by tomorrow, so we might just have to cut our trip short by one day. But it's likely this isn't the last thing that will happen to remind us of The Lesson.

On loss

If you're the kind of person who gets annoyed when my blog deviates from its theme, don't read this entry. If you're the kind of person who gets annoyed by people who treat their pets like people, don't read this entry. If you're at work and you cry extremely easily, don't read this entry.

Okay, you've been warned.

Local wonders

In 2002, my mom and dad gave me a book. Inside the front cover, my dad wrote:

If you can 'bloom where you are planted,' then even Butler County Nebraska can be a wonder.

May you always love yourself, appreciate what you have, and grow where you are planted.

This was the year that I got married, moved farther away from home than I had ever lived (to New Orleans), and began graduate school in English. I didn't know it at the time, but this was the year that would begin the wanderings that eventually brought me to Ifrane, Morocco. At the time, although I was an adult, my feelings towards the place where I had grown up could be described as "ambivalent" at best. I grew up in a rural part of Nebraska known by locals as "the Bohemian Alps," and Butler County – location of the tiny village that I lived in from the time I was five until I left for college – was largely settled by Czech immigrants. My own lack of Czech heritage was just one of many ways in which I never quite fit into the community. I thought Butler County and the surrounding "Alps" lacked texture – whether of the cultural or geographical kind. When I left for New Orleans, I was sad in the general way in which one is sad when one moves away from friends and family, but I didn't have much of a sense of connection to place.

Therefore, when, in 2002, my parents gave me a book called Local Wonders: Seasons in the Bohemian Alps by local Ted Kooser (U.S. poet laureate at the time, as I remember my father proudly telling me), I politely accepted the book and then proceeded to drag it around the world with me for the next 10 years. But I didn't once open the cover.

Whether it was out of a sense of duty or because of a vague feeling that it was symbolic or poetic or meaningful somehow, I dragged the book all the way to Morocco with me. And it was only recently – just a few weeks ago – that I finally picked up the book and read it.

It wasn't what I thought it would be. It's essentially a published collection of short, reflective journal entries Ted Kooser wrote, but they are inspired by and centered around his land, his neighbors, and the culture of Seward County (Butler County's slightly more German next-door neighbor).

Maybe the book was just waiting for the right time to be read. I almost expected to recognize some of the people he wrote about (the community is that small), and while that didn't happen, I did find myself smiling at some of the things he wrote. For example:

People [in Seward County] don't lock the doors to their houses, and the only reason they lock their cars is, in August, to keep neighbors from putting zucchini in the backseat.

Reading the book didn't really change how I felt about Butler County. As an adult, I am much more tolerant and understanding of my parents' love for the place at the same time that I have trouble thinking of it as anything other than a childhood shoe my feet have long been too big to fit into. I admire the ability that Kooser and my parents have, to settle in like trees where they were planted, to slowly extend roots and branches, not afraid of being dug up or blown away by wind, not desiring a change of scenery.

I feel much more like a dandelion seed, and for me "growing where I am planted" means something very different from what it means for my parents. There is no deliberate and permanent planting, but rather I am frequently lifted, blown from one place to another. If I land, I will prepare to put down roots, but I also recognize that the wind may carry me up again before I can do so.

This is how I have come to understand my father's note in the front of the book he gave me. He is a tree, and I'm a dandelion seed. Someday, though, the wind will put me down in a place, and I will be there long enough to put down a small root. It won't be as long or deep or permanent as the roots my parents have put down, but I will try to grow where I am planted, and wherever that place might be, I will try to look at it and its people with an appreciative eye and a full heart.

On getting used to things

On Monday, I talked to my low intermediate English students about a few of the uses of "used to." One of the phrases we talked about was "getting used to." The conversation got me thinking about my more than a year and a half in Morocco, and about all of the things I have become used to as well as the things I'm still working on getting used to.

For example, I've gotten used to shopping in Morocco, although it has only been in the past few months that I have felt myself become comfortable with this. Up until then, I was expending large amounts of energy listing the things I needed, trying to figure out where I could find them, thinking about going shopping, planning shopping trips, going shopping, and searching for the items I needed.

I've gotten used to being surrounded by people who look and talk differently than I do. This has become so normal and comfortable for me that I suspect I will feel a little strange when I return to Nebraska this summer and find myself surrounded by white people in shorts and tank tops. It will, at first, feel like a novelty to be able to understand virtually everything the people around me are saying.

I've gotten used to most of the sights, sounds, and smells of Morocco. I've become used to the way meat is sold in marchés, as whole animal carcasses hanging in front of the vendor's stalls. I've become used to seeing pedestrians, bicyclists, donkeys, and cars sharing the roads with each other. I've become used to seeing herds of goats and sheep almost everywhere, including in town.

I'm used to not having a car. I'm used to taking taxis and trains. I'm used to walking much of the time to get where I need to go. I'm used to paying in cash. I'm used to living in an apartment. I'm used to seeing hungry cats and dogs on the streets and (usually) recognizing there's not much I can do about it. I'm used to handing out all of my extra change to beggars. I'm used to having a maid.

I'm used to Turkish toilets. I'm used to bathrooms never having toilet paper and often not having soap. I'm used to peeing almost anywhere, including outdoors, sometimes just a few yards from a herd of goats and sheep.

But I'm still getting used to some aspects of the culture, like the gap between "says" and "is." I think I could live here for the rest of my life and never be entirely used to that. I'm not used to the fact that I can't just go out for a walk anywhere I want to. I'm still not used to having to get up in the middle of the night to attend my classes because they are scheduled in the evenings – central standard time.

I'm still not 100% used to the uncertainty brought on by the decision to move here that T and I made nearly two years ago. I'm still not entirely used to the vast distance I have put between myself and my friends and family. And, now that I'm thinking about it, I don't think I'm completely used to the ways in which I have changed since moving here. The "new me" is more tolerant of bugs and germs, more tolerant of uncertainty and of things not going according to plan, but the new me is also more dependent on others and less sure of herself (I didn't even think that could be possible).

I'm guessing, based on all of the reflection I just did, that I learned a little more from my lesson than my students did.

One-way ticket

Last night, T helped me buy a one-way ticket to Nebraska for early June. The nature of the ticket (i.e. one way) is indicative of the uncertainty in my life right now, and it feels strange to know that 1) I'll be flying without T (we hope he'll join me somewhere and sometime in the U.S. later in the summer; we just don't know exactly when/where), and 2) I don't know if/when I'll be coming back to Morocco. You would think that, after so many uncertain springs in my life, I would be used to this feeling by now, but I'm not. Not at all. I suppose that, for some people, this sense of openness may be exhilarating, but that's just not my personality type.

Maybe I should focus a little more on what I do know about my future. I know that I will spend a couple of weeks in Nebraska with my parents. I know that I will take a road trip with my dad to Bowling Green, Kentucky, near the end of June, and that I will stay there for my clinical internship until early August. I know that, after that, I will need to get myself down to Dallas, Texas for my sister's wedding. But what's beyond that? I don't know.

For my sister, August 11 is a day of joy and anticipation, the day when her new life starts. I am very, uncomplicatedly happy for her. But at the same time, I see that date looming in my own future like a sharp cliff. I don't know what's beyond it. And again, even though this feeling might be familiar, it's quite uncomfortable and disconcerting.

Future, here I come! As soon as I can figure out where you're hiding…

What the birds know

At lower altitudes, blooming cherry trees and bright green fields are obvious signs that spring has arrived. In Ifrane, temperatures haven't noticeably changed since February, and the ground and trees remain an expectant brown.

a patient stork

But the birds know that spring has come. In the last week or so, their songs have changed to something more boisterous. The storks--some of whom chose to remain in Ifrane for the comparatively long, cold winter, standing stoically on windy rooftops--are busy repairing and expanding their nests. They spend a remarkable amount of time selecting the right sticks, presenting them to their mates, and positioning them just so in their nests.

The egrets have returned, and in the evenings they huddle, carefully spaced apart from each other, in the leafless trees by the little lake in the center of town. The lesser kestrels have arrived after a winter away, too, and their unexpectedly doll-like peeping calls can be heard throughout town. Starlings flit about in groups, singing in a way that I can't help but think of as playful.

And even though I know it's anthropomorphizing, I also read hopefulness into all of it. This, the birds remind me, is the time of opening, of awakening, of tender growth and fast change. On a cool morning when the bright sun shines warm on my face, and I see the patient storks putting their lives back together slowly, one thin stick at a time, my heart feels full with possibility. Like their nests, my home, my life, is repeatedly undone. But what can I do? That is the nature of life. I can only, after a winter of undoing, awaken in the spring, pick up a stick, and place it carefully. Then do it again. And again. Admire the work, but don't get attached. Keep building. This must be what the storks do. This is what I will try to do. This is what we all must do.

Morocco and me

Lately, the absence of my friend LW, my chronic "unwellness," the difficulty of completing a U.S.-centered graduate program while living overseas, and the uncertainty about where I'll be in five months have all gotten me thinking again, rather intensely and frequently, about the idea of loving a country. The cold weather and my health have prevented me from spending much time outdoors, and I find that, without interesting trips and time spent sitting at cafés in the sun drinking mint tea with friends, I like Morocco a lot less.

I've been wondering, too, how many people love or like or are even content with the place where they live. It may not be apparent from my blog, but in my adult life, I have tried to approach each place I've lived with a general attitude of openness and appreciation. I have tried to make each place my home, even when I knew I wouldn't be spending much time there. But if I am completely honest, I must say: I have utterly failed to make Morocco my home.

I haven't explored enough of the country. I haven't taken advantage of its proximity to Europe. I haven't learned the language, and as much as I like to declare that this is evidence of my general dimwitted-ness, it's really evidence of my failure to integrate, to settle down. I haven't made Moroccan friends. I haven't learned enough about Islam. I haven't even asked the University imam to give me a tour of the mosque on campus, and it's the only mosque in the country that I, as a non-Muslim, can visit.

Where do I go from here? I'm not sure. I know that lots of people live in places where they don't feel at home. What do they do? I want to turn from bitterness and get up each morning with the intention of trying to live here. I will renew that intention every day, to the extent possible. That's all I can think of to do.

On finishing my second first semester of graduate school

A few minutes ago, I hit the "submit" button on an exam on Blackboard, and that marked the end of my first semester of graduate school in speech-language pathology

But, of course, this was my second first semester of graduate school. The first first semester was in 2002. I was 23 years old, and I was a newlywed. T and I took all of our belongings out of our studio apartment (where we had lived together for only three months) and put them into the back of my dad's pickup truck. We packed ourselves, my sister, and my friend Marcy into our 1992 Dodge Shadow and drove down to New Orleans, with my parents and the pickup truck not far behind. We didn't even have a place to live in New Orleans, and I think we were too young to be particularly nervous about it.

I was pursuing a Master's degree in English, and T was getting a Master's of Fine Arts in Creative Writing. I don't recall either of us having any particular career goal in mind at that time. We were excited about the opportunity to live in a new place. We were excited about the challenge, and about the idea of having an "M" after our names (as in, JABS, M.A.).

To help pay for school, we had teaching assistantships, and so we became teachers.

Eight years later, after selling a large number of our belongings, we put most of what remained into a small storage unit in Omaha, Nebraska, and packed the rest into four large suitcases to bring with us to Ifrane, Morocco. I spent a year doing undergraduate preparatory coursework in a completely new field. And now I am (incha'allah) one quarter of the way through with graduate coursework in that field. In most ways, it is an entirely different experience. This time, I'm not going to school out of a vague love of learning and of literature. I'm going to school to prepare for a job. If you know what kind of person I am, you might understand how strange this is.

In fact, I almost feel like I'm a different person this time around. Yes, the school experience itself is entirely different because it's online. But I'm not the same kind of student, either. While I have to some degree embraced the procrastinatory nature of being a student, I haven't done so nearly to the same degree as I did nine years ago. I have handed in almost every assignment and exam at least one or two days before the due date. I don't stay up late writing papers. I'm not nearly as afraid, this time around, to admit when I don't know or don't understand something.

The one way in which I really haven't changed as a student is that the familiar fear of failure is still present. But again, I think I'm more open about it this time around. And I see that my classmates have the same fear. For most of us, this is a second or third (or more) crack at figuring out what we want to be when we grow up. Many of my classmates have spouses who are working extra hard so they can take time off to go to school, and money is tight for them. They have children who put heavy demands on their time and attention. They have aging parents to worry about. So much more is at stake this time that it makes sense for the fear to be more intense.

I hope this means, though, that in a year and a half the success will be that much sweeter.

Another holiday season away from home

A few days ago, my uncle Jim sent me a link to this song by Tim Minchin. He's a comedian, but I found my eyes misting a little as I listened to the song about the role of family in making Christmas time special (for theists and atheists alike).

This morning, I was shocked upon realizing that it was time to flip my calendar to December.

Christmas is going to be here before I know it, and this year will mark my third Christmas without family and my second Christmas in a foreign country.

Out of a somewhat unhealthy desire to dwell on my growing melancholy, I went back through my photographs to look at pictures of previous family Christmases. Our last Christmas with my family was in 2008. (It also turned out to be our last Christmas at the house in which my sister and I grew up.) Our last Christmas with T's family was in 2007. Even then, it wasn't a gathering of the whole family – T's brother wasn't there.

I love Christmas. It is, hands down, my favorite holiday. And yet this year, I find myself dreading its approach. I know I should set up our little Christmas tree and try to devise some decorations for it. I know I should try to plan some kind of Christmas brunch or dinner for the small number of friends and acquaintances who will be in Ifrane that day. But I'm unmotivated to do those things because the truth is that I just want to be with family on Christmas this year.

Because I know that's not possible, I find my thoughts jumping all the way to Christmas 2012. Where will I be then? I try to comfort myself with the thought that surely next year we will find a way to be with some family members for Christmas. Realistically, though, I have no idea if that will happen. I will still be a student at that time and won't be contributing much to our household income. I have to go to Kentucky for a month this coming summer as part of my schoolwork, so it's not likely that I'll be able to justify another return to the United States a few months later. We also have family members in New Zealand, but…have you ever looked to see how far away New Zealand is??

My best coping strategy would probably be to move forward in planning a Moroccan Christmas, to make plans to Skype with family members on that day, and to try to develop a sense of solidarity with other people all over the world who spend holidays away from their families for a variety of reasons.

Happy holidays, everyone. Try to enjoy the place where you are and the people you're with.

The road home

The drive back to Ifrane on Sunday (after a weekend spent in Midelt and Imilchil) was long, hot, and uncomfortably crowded. Nevertheless, I was okay with it. I was accepting of it. And I found that, maybe for the first time since coming back to Morocco after five weeks spent in the United States, I was really, truly accepting another year in Morocco.

I want for the tone and content of this blog to be more positive than negative, more forward-looking than backward looking. I try to do more pretty photographs, and less silly navel-gazing.

But the truth is that it was hard for me to come back here on August 25. It was hard not to dwell on a lot of things that are not (or do not have to be) all that important – the accessibility of a Whole Foods store; the closeness of family and friends (and the ease with which I could communicate with them when I had a U.S. phone number they could call); the convenience of conducting business by telephone and in English; the availability of vegetarian protein products and good microbrew beers; even the presence of a soft, comfortable bed with high-quality pillows.

I lost sight of why I gave these things up, and I was seduced by the ultimately materialistic (and, therefore – at least ideally – unimportant) conveniences and luxuries of living in my home country. I lost sight of what I gained in the previous year here in Morocco, and of what I have to gain in the coming year (or more).

So I am back in Ifrane with greater resolve to live here. T and I are planning on hiring a Darija tutor, in an effort (no matter how pathetic it turns out to be) to be able to communicate with more Moroccans. We will try to go on more trips. We will try to make more friends. We will try to be more kind, giving, and generous to those around us. I will continue working on my constant quest to be less materialistic and less caught up in "the little things."

I think this family was probably ecstatic when they were finally able to get their solar panel (which  is just barely visible on their rooftop). That kind of helps put the Whole Foods thing in perspective, doesn't it?

And even though I know that my ultimate goal is to return to the United States and to find a (permanent) home somewhere within its borders, I will work on being patient and appreciative of the moment.

These are all resolutions that I will have to renew week to week, day to day, and sometimes even moment to moment. That is one reason I am posting them here: a public declaration makes them more real, and harder to forget.

At least for now, I'm home. I'll say it again: I'm home.

On patriotism and being an American

I don't think I have ever in my adult life thought of myself as a "patriot." I have associated the word with poor education, "country bumpkinness," militarism, Republicanism, and a lack of critical thinking skills, among other things. I think the word has also become strangely connected in my mind to Walmart, hamburgers and other fast food, fireworks, Chevrolet trucks, and a mishmash of other American entities or institutions.

These are not things with which I generally associate myself.

Up until a year ago, I didn't think of myself as particularly "American," either. But now, after having spent a year in another country, I have come to recognize the "Americanness" in myself. I may hate Walmart as an entity, and I may hate shopping in Walmart stores, but I like and am used to the convenience they provide. I think I have a right to see a list of ingredients in any food I order at a restaurant. I think every town should have a yoga studio and a microbrewery (or should be within an hour's drive of a yoga studio and a microbrewery). I love grilling and eating grilled food. I like getting soy milk in my coffee. I resent governments imposing religious practices on their people, but I expect them to have laws that protect the minorities in their societies. Social hierarchies make me nervous. Etc. Etc.

In short, I have discovered that I am, incurably, an American.

Getting in touch with my "Americanness" made me realize that there are some things about the United States of which I actually am proud, and that led me to realize that such pride could be a form of patriotism. Boy, has that come as a bit of a shock to me!

I knew that living overseas would change me, but I hadn't thought much about how it would help me get in touch with the parts of myself that aren't likely to change. Before I came to Morocco, there was a part of me that thought maybe I would feel like I fit in better here, since I never entirely felt like I fit in when I was in my home country. At least when comparing the two countries of Morocco and the United States, the latter is where I can be more myself.

Closing day

Well, it's over. Yesterday was closing day; we successfully sold our house. The cat, Sierra, is safely deposited with her new family. The remaining yard equipment has been passed on to the neighbors.

T and I haven't seen the house in a year and didn't sign the closing paperwork, so it doesn't feel entirely real to us. That has made it easier to avoid waxing nostalgic, but I'm not sure whether that avoidance is emotionally healthy.

Closing day on the house is the official closing day for a particular dream and a particular path which our life has turned away from. It may be years before my memory of the house settles into simple fondness. Right now, I feel relief, but also a painful longing, a slight itching of regret, vague apprehension, and a disconcerting feeling of being entirely untethered.

I look forward to the perspective that time and distance from the experience will give me, the perspective that I think Robert Frost writes about in "The Road Not Taken." It's not that I've clearly taken the better path, but I do look forward to the day when I can tell myself that I did.