Waiting For The Poetry

Christina Chevie - India


November 7, 2019

For a long time now, I’ve written many blogs. None of which I have published. I don’t know why. I guess I have been waiting for perfection, for clarity, for a better understanding as to what the hell is going on. I see now though that not all writing needs to hide it’s deeper meaning. Maybe some writing places the meaning in your hands. Maybe the simplicity of reality is deep enough. So I’m going to update whoever is reading this with my current reality. I am so happy. I am so confused. I am so brave. I recently moved host families. I am very proud of myself for choosing my mental state over anything else. I did not think I would be able to do it. 

I am in love with my school. I live for my students. They are such joys in my life and working with them gives me purpose. They are the first thing I think of when I wake up because they are my reason to get out of bed in the morning. It sounds sappy but it’s true. When they finish a math sheet for the first time, the glow in their eyes, the pride in their smile, all I can say is it’s some kind of magic. And I get to be there when it happens. 

I also have the greatest friends here. No matter what it is I’m dealing with, they are right there with me. Being a world away from anything familiar, you would think it to be unbearably lonely. But it isn’t really. Thanks to them, I have found, I am never truly alone In my loneliness. For the first time in my life I feel as though I can fall to my knees because they would never let me hit the ground. 

I am learning everyday, no, every moment. As a women, I am struggling with the gender roles. I won’t get used to it. Then again, I wouldn’t want to. I am learning to be okay with the stares even when they sting. I am practicing curiosity before judging. I do my best to keep empathy in my ears and kindness on my lips, though at times the two are hard to balance. Overall, I am failing and laughing and learning and healing and living a dream I myself have chosen. And that, in it of itself, is poetry. No rhymes needed. 

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Christina Chevie