adapt
So we adapt. I don’t notice the shower-head is moldy anymore. I don’t mind the construction noise. I don’t feel bad for myself that I can’t drink organic milk here.
I felt humbled today: walking downtown with a pillow case full of laundry, heading over for my date with Suds ‘n’ Dry for the afternoon. We residents with our VSC mugs and artsy scarves stick out pretty badly in a relatively rural low-income town.
The lights from outside light up my room at night, so I shut both the blinds and the curtains, and I’ve loved the ritual now of waking up in darkness, amazed at what time it is if it’s really so dark, then buttoning back up the curtains and twisting open the blinds. The grounds are covered with frost, everything reflecting light.
Someone keeps slamming the door at 4:30 in the morning, so I put on ambient noise.
When we travel, I have moments of being afraid that I won’t have these details in my life that seem to hold my identity: the ritual of morning walks or a specific coffee or the exact right kind of tea. It makes me a little anxious to leave for a long time, especially when we’ve traveled to another country, because none of the things that are my comforts will be with me. But it’s never a problem. We always just make do.
It makes me realize that, for all the horror stories people like to arm me with for what it will be like when the baby comes, like anything else we’ll adapt.
(Though a woman here very kindly came over to me on my birthday and gave me her aluminum water bottle because she knew that I didn’t like to drink out of plastic. I was willing to adapt, but I love how she was helping me bring my values that I hold at home to this place. Wow, that’s nice. People are so warm sometimes. I barely know her and she gave me a present. I’ve been impressed with the people here and their humanity. My brother says that maybe we should walk around pretending that everyone is our best friend, but they just have amnesia so they’ve momentarily forgotten.)
