Dreaming out loud
I have drafted this blog post a thousand times.
At first, it was supposed to be a firm protest titled "You can't make me," in which I described my how emotionally unprepared I was to leave Norway. Then I re-wrote it as a contemplative piece, reviewing my time here and reflecting on the simple advice from my adviser that prompted me to apply for the grant. I was so convinced that I was going to feel contemplative on my last night in Norway that I even had a song quote picked out for the post. It was from "Yellow Light" by Of Monsters and Men.
As I sit here now, in the middle of my empty room, I don't feel any of the things I expected to. I didn't cry tonight. I just had dinner with my housemates like any other day. I didn't feel the world spinning around me or feel the weight of a page turning in my living biography. I just felt...normal.
This is my life, I guess. It's hellos and goodbyes, culture shock, and visits to the immigration office. It's suitcases and customs forms; it's changing the currency in my wallet every time I step off a plane. It's traveling and bonding and building bridges and doing everything in my power to understand the world. It's mine.
And 20 years from now, if I am still doing this exact same thing, if I am still jet-setting in pursuit of biological mysteries, if I am still following the scientific questions wherever they lead, if I am still seeing new landscapes and battling diverse climates, if I am still learning about culture and community and kindness and compassion and embracing beautiful humans everywhere I go - well, then I will consider myself to be the most blessed person alive.
This life is everything I have ever wanted. In fact, if you read my diary from my undergraduate years, you will realize that the life I dreamed of then is exactly the life I have now. It's traveling to the far corners of the earth; it's pushing back the boundaries of human knowledge; it's experiencing genuine community in the most unexpected places. That's my life! What astounds me, though, is that I don't feel like I chose this. I know for a fact that I never chose to be a scientist, and I'm pretty sure I didn't choose to be a traveler either. This life chose me. It was laid out before me, and all I had to do was say "Yes."
In just a few short hours, I will get on a plane and fly to my next adventure. I will bid farewell to Norway, to this country that I love, and embrace another chapter. Maybe at some point it will hit me, and I will realize my time here is over. Maybe then I will pull out the card from my housemates and try to decipher the various handwriting in blue pen. Maybe I'll read their heartfelt messages and start to tear up. I am going to miss them so much. Maybe I'll reminisce about evenings with Ingeborg, or look back at pictures of Stavanger landscapes. And maybe then, I will start to feel a little less than normal, like part of me is missing.
But maybe, just maybe, I will feel like part of me has grown. Maybe I'll know that Norway has changed me, refreshed me, blasted me clean and calmed me down. Maybe I'll feel like I have gained something - an incredible half year in a beautiful country with beautiful people. Maybe my heart will start to feel what my head knows to be true; that Norway is now a part of me, that I carry her with me, and that I can always come back.
Maybe I'll wake up tomorrow and realize that this whole time, I've been dreaming out loud.
At first, it was supposed to be a firm protest titled "You can't make me," in which I described my how emotionally unprepared I was to leave Norway. Then I re-wrote it as a contemplative piece, reviewing my time here and reflecting on the simple advice from my adviser that prompted me to apply for the grant. I was so convinced that I was going to feel contemplative on my last night in Norway that I even had a song quote picked out for the post. It was from "Yellow Light" by Of Monsters and Men.
As I sit here now, in the middle of my empty room, I don't feel any of the things I expected to. I didn't cry tonight. I just had dinner with my housemates like any other day. I didn't feel the world spinning around me or feel the weight of a page turning in my living biography. I just felt...normal.
This is my life, I guess. It's hellos and goodbyes, culture shock, and visits to the immigration office. It's suitcases and customs forms; it's changing the currency in my wallet every time I step off a plane. It's traveling and bonding and building bridges and doing everything in my power to understand the world. It's mine.
And 20 years from now, if I am still doing this exact same thing, if I am still jet-setting in pursuit of biological mysteries, if I am still following the scientific questions wherever they lead, if I am still seeing new landscapes and battling diverse climates, if I am still learning about culture and community and kindness and compassion and embracing beautiful humans everywhere I go - well, then I will consider myself to be the most blessed person alive.
This life is everything I have ever wanted. In fact, if you read my diary from my undergraduate years, you will realize that the life I dreamed of then is exactly the life I have now. It's traveling to the far corners of the earth; it's pushing back the boundaries of human knowledge; it's experiencing genuine community in the most unexpected places. That's my life! What astounds me, though, is that I don't feel like I chose this. I know for a fact that I never chose to be a scientist, and I'm pretty sure I didn't choose to be a traveler either. This life chose me. It was laid out before me, and all I had to do was say "Yes."
In just a few short hours, I will get on a plane and fly to my next adventure. I will bid farewell to Norway, to this country that I love, and embrace another chapter. Maybe at some point it will hit me, and I will realize my time here is over. Maybe then I will pull out the card from my housemates and try to decipher the various handwriting in blue pen. Maybe I'll read their heartfelt messages and start to tear up. I am going to miss them so much. Maybe I'll reminisce about evenings with Ingeborg, or look back at pictures of Stavanger landscapes. And maybe then, I will start to feel a little less than normal, like part of me is missing.
But maybe, just maybe, I will feel like part of me has grown. Maybe I'll know that Norway has changed me, refreshed me, blasted me clean and calmed me down. Maybe I'll feel like I have gained something - an incredible half year in a beautiful country with beautiful people. Maybe my heart will start to feel what my head knows to be true; that Norway is now a part of me, that I carry her with me, and that I can always come back.
Maybe I'll wake up tomorrow and realize that this whole time, I've been dreaming out loud.
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| The moon rising over Stavanger, 3 Feb 2015 |
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