Restless?

Is it strange to draw strength from futility and despair? Is it possible to find joy in suffering, and power in frustration? What about comfort in filth, satisfaction in being hungry, or sublime order in absolute chaos?

Last year around this time these dynamics were in full swing and keeping me moving. In Jamaica, I regularly hiked over mountains, forged swollen rivers, and took on daunting journeys as daily routine. The hotter the sun, the harder the rains, the slower the meetings– the happier I became. I remember regularly visiting peaks of exasperation, feeling my temper melt and my muscles burn, to the point where my mind detached to soak in my surroundings and situation, somehow converting my agony into energy, my weakness into strength, and my hate into love. It’s impossible to describe, but somehow I shoveled all the myriad nasties of bush life and found within them profound joy, and used them to carry on, like fuel to the furnace of my soul.

The road up to Goffe, flooded after Tropical Storm Gustav.

Back then I thought nothing of a predawn hike to a hillside farm, or a day spent digging irrigation lines under the screaming sun, or stuffing my bare hands into a humming beehive and laughing with the stings. Now, I’m lucky if I can pull myself out of bed before 10 AM. Before I could walk into a group of idle youths and convince them to attend a community meeting, or engage a hostile Rasta in epic sociopolitical debate ending in laughter and goodwill, or sell a long shot project to a skeptical donor organization. Now I have trouble making small talk and relating to people whose concerns just don’t click with me.

Something is missing.

My old kitchen, only slightly less sanitary than it looks

Back then I hardly noticed the dirt and leaf particles in my drinking water, the ants in my cereal, or the chicken parts in my soup. Now I bitch if they forget to sprinkle cinnamon on my chai latte. In those days I slept in swerving taxis choked with thundering sound, and walked peacefully through raucous street parties and volatile political protests. Now I get annoyed at the sound of a lawnmower and feel horribly transplanted in the place of my birth.

I feel a change coming. It’s a matter of time, and pressure. Both are approaching considerable levels. The last time I felt like this, I ended up in the Jamaican bush. One thing is for sure, normalcy is just not my thing right now, but I can’t quite yet make out the destination over the horizon.

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