After nearly six months in New York, I’m finally back in Guatemala.
Leaving my family was heartbreaking. It always is. You’d think that, maybe, after almost 30 years of traveling between NY home and Guatemala home, I’d be used to it.
Nope. I was as sad and anxious, stressed and depressed this time as I was during my first trip in 1989. (My first visit to Guatemala was in 1988, with a Habitat for Humanity workcamp. I didn’t start living there, though, until the following year.)
I often feel that my return to Guatemala happens in three stages:
1. My tired body arrives in-country, complete with plane-face and aching luggage-shoulders.
2. In the following days my mind catches up, finally allowing me to form complete (and semi-coherent) sentences in Spanish.
3. The last to appear is my heart. I’m not sure how it travels (United Airlines, perhaps?), but it always arrives beaten, bruised and incomplete. It always takes a while to heal.
During these times of transition, I wonder: “why do I keep doing this to myself?!?”
(When I have the answer, I’ll be sure to share it with you.)