Over the Atlantic- written 2.18.10

The plane is asleep, and I look at the stars outside my window. They're not that different- not at all different- from the ones I would have seen last night if I had looked aout my window as I lay in my bed, thinking about what was to come. And tomorrow night, when I look out the window of my Brazzaville hotel and think about where I've ended up, then too I'll see stars. Maybe different constellations, but still stars.

There's something to that- something useful to remember. Something about me. The me that is comfortable and spontaneous and loving at home, the me that is loving or listens or laughs with my most trusted friends, the me that is overwhelmend at the beauty of a amountaintop, silently content and thanking God, that is the me that will look and listen and love in Brazzaville, in Nkayi, in Pointe Noire, in Dolisie. Because that me is me- the only me. And what I love in family and friends and mountaintops, that is what I will love in Sibiti and Yaounde and Douala. Because love is love is love.

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