On returning

Yes, coming back is difficult: lamenting the rapidity of losing the sense of exploration, inner and of the world, the stability of displacement in the knowledge that I am with people, touching if only tentatively a history and culture and movements both at the intimate scale of families I meet or villages and the impossible, daunting scale of religion or ritual or architecture or language. Losing the sense that what I’m doing has a danger, or if that’s not the right way of putting it, that it has a way impressing its uncertainty, forcing a willingness to not insist that I control everything that goes on but that instead the rhythms of the next place do, my own embodiment and limitations do, that ragged painful threshold that speaks as clearly as any meditative state as to what I am.  When I return I do miss those things.