I’m taking part in a weekly discussion group that touches on topics of (dis)connection and (not) belonging, among other things, and last night, the themes of “purpose” and “gift” came up in conversation. A participant at my table shared how he came to be an end-of-life caretaker, something he never “wanted” but found himself profoundly prepared and equipped to do. He talked about how his journey of finding his purpose was a process of learning to let go of what the ego thinks it wants.
This was the second time in two days that the notion of “purpose” has come up in the space I’ve found myself in. I pay attention when that happens.
It made me think about and share with my table what seems to be an inflection point in my life: learning when to push and when to let go. I talked about the many stops and starts I’ve faced on various passion projects. About the doors that seemed to swing open only to slam very shut later. You know what I’m talking about. INCONJUNCT is one example, but there are others.
I’ve wondered what to do with these situations. I have “a very particular set of skills,” one of which is my tenacity. When I latch on, I don’t let go. It’s why Mira called me a dung beetle years ago. I’m good at shoveling the shit, and that’s my usual instinct. If things don’t come easy, I push harder.
But over the past few years, I’ve been wondering if that season is turning. Maybe the time for composting is over. I don’t know. I’m not sure what comes next.
I remember my first few weeks of being here. I threw myself into service. I remember going to a “socialists of color” gathering and being commiserated when I said that I’d recently immigrated. I found that odd. But now, in the circles I’m in more frequently, I’m enthusiastically congratulated when I say that I recently became a citizen. I find that odd too.
Odd. Oddball. Odd man out. That’s the ontological space we occupy as we invest years and thousands into the project of ensnarement in the American dream machine, only to watch U.S. of A-grade nightmares unfold back home from the other side. Garbage in, garbage out, I suppose.
Odd. Just odd. The joy of material security at the expense of psychic instability. How did I forget? I was here in 2006 as well and I thought I’d lose my mind. How did I forget the garish headlines screaming “HEZ SLAYS” on the New York subway? How did I forget the green screen footage claiming that Hassan Nasrallah was dead in my university lobby? It was spiritual warfare, and I almost lost.
But here we are. My visa isn’t running out, so I don’t have to scramble to figure out a flight back to Beirut while its airport lays in ruin. This is my home now. But Hassan Nasrallah is dead, and Beirut is smoldering again, and home is a foreign concept right now.
Odd.