Slowly sitting on the living room floor of my new house, I turned the fan on high and pointed it in my direction. Without energy or enthusiasm I looked at the boxes piled like towers around me, thinking I should wait until it was cooler in the night to unpack them. A glance at my phone told me it was still in the triple digits at 10:30. Lovely, I thought. Just lovely. Filled with bitter and frustrated thoughts, I slumped down further against the wall as if it would cool me down more easily.
At that moment I remembered where I am going. Immediately growing more and more aware of the number of possessions before me, I suddenly wondered if I would look at these towers of boxes differently when I came back. All of these things will be the same, waiting for me at the end of the summer. Will I want all of this, or will the things I see and experience make them nearly shameful to have? How will my perspective change overseas, and what will I do with it when I am living in America once again? In the past month I had been asked countless questions about this trip. What will I be doing when I am there? What will my living conditions be? Am I scared?
I’m not sure. I have no idea. Absolutely.
There are moments, like this night in my new house, that I become acutely aware of the fact that I am going to change over the course of the summer, but I have no idea how or in what way. I can try to imagine what my experience will be like, but the reality is I don’t know what to expect. This large ambiguity is both exciting and unsettling. I look forward to the moments I will experience, both the hard and amazing. I smiled, wondering what I was getting myself into. I suppose there is no way to fully answer this. I was called, and I am going. That is all I need to know for now.