New Place, New Self
"I'm a different person here," my friend J said last night. "I say outrageous things in Spanish that I wouldn't say in English. I'm introverted in my English-language self, but in Spanish I let it out."
I know what she means! It's so delicious to discover you aren't always trapped in that old familiar self, that a different place can make you different. I was in a meditation retreat last month with someone who said ruefully, " I thought if I changed my environment, I'd change myself." She laughed, mocking herself for such a silly thought. I wanted to say, "But it's true! Or it can be at true! It's not a silly thought!" I didn't say anything because it was a retreat where only the teacher responded.
I know, though, that it's also true that "wherever you go, there you are," at least in my case. I carry daily rituals with me and whether I'm in Eureka or England, Mexico or Mauricious, I like: coffee early in the morning, a pattern of early to bed early to rise, black felt tip pens (never ballpoint), lined journals. And sadly, I adhere to these rituals more now than I used to. I sometimes feel trapped by them. I feel sympathy for sufferers of OCD who HAVE to have a particular towel or object when they travel, or they can't relax.
Still I cling to the idea that we can be changed, that different landscapes, colors, elevations, sounds--natural or human made--have the power to evoke different selves.
I heard Isabel Allende say in an interview that she cooks and makes love in Spanish, she writes in English. When I speak Spanish, I feel the clackety clack of the sounds rising up in me, I hear the rhythm of the sounds, and I feel different, less linear. Is it any wonder that tango and salsa and rumba came from Spanish-speaking countries? And at the same time, speaking in Spanish reminds me how much I love English, with its lumplike syllables. English, my homeland. I can get tears in my eyes over English, I feel such appreciation for its richness.
Colorful cubist Guanajuato with its deep pinks and reds brings out different inner striations in me than flat, brown, watery Eureka. In Guanajuato I walk the crooked stairs and steps and alleys; in Eureka, I bicycle the farmlands and kayak the estuaries. One isn't bad and one isn't good. They each enrich and enlarge me.
I know what she means! It's so delicious to discover you aren't always trapped in that old familiar self, that a different place can make you different. I was in a meditation retreat last month with someone who said ruefully, " I thought if I changed my environment, I'd change myself." She laughed, mocking herself for such a silly thought. I wanted to say, "But it's true! Or it can be at true! It's not a silly thought!" I didn't say anything because it was a retreat where only the teacher responded.
I know, though, that it's also true that "wherever you go, there you are," at least in my case. I carry daily rituals with me and whether I'm in Eureka or England, Mexico or Mauricious, I like: coffee early in the morning, a pattern of early to bed early to rise, black felt tip pens (never ballpoint), lined journals. And sadly, I adhere to these rituals more now than I used to. I sometimes feel trapped by them. I feel sympathy for sufferers of OCD who HAVE to have a particular towel or object when they travel, or they can't relax.
Still I cling to the idea that we can be changed, that different landscapes, colors, elevations, sounds--natural or human made--have the power to evoke different selves.
I heard Isabel Allende say in an interview that she cooks and makes love in Spanish, she writes in English. When I speak Spanish, I feel the clackety clack of the sounds rising up in me, I hear the rhythm of the sounds, and I feel different, less linear. Is it any wonder that tango and salsa and rumba came from Spanish-speaking countries? And at the same time, speaking in Spanish reminds me how much I love English, with its lumplike syllables. English, my homeland. I can get tears in my eyes over English, I feel such appreciation for its richness.
Colorful cubist Guanajuato with its deep pinks and reds brings out different inner striations in me than flat, brown, watery Eureka. In Guanajuato I walk the crooked stairs and steps and alleys; in Eureka, I bicycle the farmlands and kayak the estuaries. One isn't bad and one isn't good. They each enrich and enlarge me.
posted by Louisa at 6:01 AM
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