I’m having to make a lot of adjustments to the way I do things. I did the math the other day, and realized that I have picked up and moved thirteen times in less than six years (or fourteen or fifteen times depending on how you count). Save some mementos and books, there is very little I own today that is more than a couple years old, that I didn’t sell or give away. Not that I had so much to sell or give to begin with. I feel like it puts me in a different world, lacking basic needs and confidence in my own security. Even food and sleep are things I have good precedent not to count on. I’ve lived in four completely different cultures in as many years. Even my name itself has changed some three times since it was given to me. I am loath to ask for pity, but I know these facts must strongly impact how I engage with others and my surroundings, how I perceive myself and others, and a host of other facets that make up “who I am.”
It has been brought up a couple times since I’ve been here in Boston that it is odd I don’t have a phone. As big of a tech junkie as I am, I know it isn’t because of some Luddite elitism. Money is always a factor, but thinking about it now, could it be that I have simply just presumed subconsciously that I would never stay somewhere long enough to put down roots to need one? Now that I’m supposed to stay here for a few years, I’ve recognized I’m due for some introspection and reassessment.
The notion that I will live in this same house for the next few years makes me very anxious, like a claustrophobic. I already want to plan my next escape, to be able to run away at the drop of a hat. I have certainly done my share of running away in the past, and have a seemingly unquenchable thirst for independence. Maybe these things are hereditary. Maybe this is why I love the Church so much. While I feel like a stranger wherever I go, like I’m in it alone most of the time, wherever I go and find a good piece of Church, I know I can find a feeling of home there, that I’m a part of something, and that isn’t conditional.
Is it good to be able to just pick up and leave everything behind—family, friends, lovers, possessions, my very name? What does it mean to want to, and feel anxious if I don’t? Is this from fear, an escapist mentality, some extreme method of coping with deep psychological distress? Or could it be quite the opposite, the command of the Lord to give up everything down to my name, becoming my second nature. It is clear to me that this disconnect I sense hasn’t affected my emotional distance from strangers. Maybe this distance, counter intuitively, is what makes it so easy for me to love strangers and want to help them, or at least better identify with them in want. Maybe these alternatives need not be so dichotomized and perhaps one really leads to the other. Maybe I’m rationalizing.
At any rate, even Jesus had a strong group of friends. The notion that Jesus’ ministry with his disciples fit into a niche of contemporary itinerate outcast healers and sophists has been, to my relief, effectively challenged on the grounds of the socioeconomic demography of Galilee in first century CE. To my credit, I certainly have no shortage of outgoingness in certain contexts, and I suppose now would be the time to capitalize on that. I don’t expect these feelings of distance and separation to change quickly, especially having taken place during these most formative years of my life, but I hope that eventually healthy adjustments will be possible. Like I’ve often felt when I pick up to go, the task now becomes discerning what needs forgetting, and what has become too much a part of me to leave behind.
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