Something about "self" discovery.
Self discovery, a commitment that doesn't neglect the aliveness of my truth but instead transforms it into a remedy of deep knowing.
It’s 9:43 pm, and I’m on my third bus in two days. Each being more than 10 hours long. Each being with the attempt to get to Peru. To play out my intention with coming to South America. To be present, to be stripped of my being-ness, to un-clothe myself, to come forth as an act of service, and merge with the unseen in a way that is supportive for the well-being of the collective. To let go of the self, all while strengthening the self. All while protecting my innocence, my excitement for life.
It’s dark, and I’ve been placed in seat seven—located in the top half of this double-decked bus. This one being the worst of the three different rides. No air conditioning, and we’re going up dozens of feet in elevation by the stretch. I keep stuffing my mouth with coca leaves, chewing them just enough to gather a mushy lump that can then be stored against my cheek— my teeth help press it against my cheek, releasing its offering. Yet the moment I feel that it’s no longer gifting me the medicine I need, I spit it out and stuff my mouth once again. Placing in a bag its remains, and thanking it for its contribution.
The top deck of the bus is quiet. Not a single sound. Eyes are closed, or completely entranced by tiny screens, where pixels are distracting, long enough to not recognize that the only air being inhaled is that of musk, body odor, and the breath from those beside you.
On the first floor exists only a few seats—and a small toilet where the driver has made it clear it can only be used for peeing. On that same floor, just down 6 steps from where i’m sitting, shines a light—hues of orange are seen from seat seven, and from this orange comes the singing of a Spanish-speaking voice, something classic, something rich, something wise and known by many.
They slammed the door; I no longer feel connected to those on the first floor of the bus. Only a faint sound of the music can be heard. Yet the orange lighting lingers through a tiny window.
The father beside me worries for his child. Expresses his care by fanning the child’s face with an empty phone case and half-opened eyes. I receive his care for myself, with an occasional gust of wind against my arm.
The child sleeping soundly, the air conditioning still off, the bus at an incline while in motion, and hums of a song offering something within me a sense of familiarity.
The coca leaves are due for being replaced. I repeat the process.
My truth with being committed to "self" discovery.
My truth about being on the road is that I miss my mom. I miss the sound of her voice echoing love and reassurance into my being, even when I'm convinced I don't need it. I always need it; it's forever my truest retreat, my safest sanctuary. I miss witnessing my little brothers restlessly roam the house, as their minds so naturally become entertained by everything they encounter. Their laughter, their raw emotion. I miss the safety that comes with knowing my dad is lingering nearby, available at any given moment. Offering unconscious wisdom and visible security. I miss the smell of the home I've so conveniently discovered myself in and have even more comfortably lost myself within. I miss knowing what was down the street, even if I never took the time to remind myself of the street's name. I miss the story of how my life would unravel when I didn't realize that the thoughts filling my mind weren't mine, but instead prayers and ancestral offerings. I miss the simplicity that came with doing just enough to get by while convinced of some type of finish line.
So many parts of me yearn to reexperience the level of comfort I once knew, all while deliberately knowing that the comfort I speak of was simply the choosing to let life continue, with the belief that it was happening to me, instead of for me.
How can I explain that the discomfort I experience while actively choosing this path of self-discovery, away from everything I've ever known, does not go unnoticed? Yet, its presence seems to hearten deep curiosity. Feeding into the fire of my passion. Exciting a child within whose unwavering love remains, whose unswerving awe for this is restored, continuously rediscovered. Its presence, a constant reminder of gratitude for all that’s taken place before this very moment, before this very breath.
In this unabiding encountering, experiencing.
Written while listening to:
“A calling home” By Ann McDonald on Spotify.