Compassion and stupidity are not mutually exclusive

When I was in high school, I was driving home one winter night and suddenly came upon a dog standing in the middle of the paved country road. I instinctively put on my brakes. My yellow Chevy Celebrity slid on the black ice that covered the road and then slammed into a ditch. My little sister, who has a knack for being a passenger when people get into accidents, was very shaken up, as was I. Neither of us was hurt, but the car was essentially totaled. (And the dog, I might add, was unharmed.)

After that little accident, my dad tried to nudge me toward having learned a lesson. He wanted me to say that, should I find myself in a similar situation again, I would just hit the animal. People's lives are more important than animal's lives. But I really dislike lying, and I knew that I would do the exact same thing again, regardless of the consequences. That was many years ago, and I still think I would do the same thing now.

I have a soft spot for animals. Living in a country like Morocco can be difficult for people like me because animal welfare isn't as much of a priority here as it is in a place like the United States (although I have to say that, in the U.S., we are a little hypocritical with our love of animals).

I have remarked several times that it's a very good thing I'm so allergic to cats and dogs. My allergy prevents me from having the option of rescuing any of them. I know myself well enough to know that if I could take in a stray cat or dog, I would take in many more than I could practically handle.

That's what I said, anyway. Until last night.

What I did on Easter

Zaouia d'Ifrane, revisited, this time with T and our friends Brian and Sara.

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…