Healing Balm. Apply Twice Daily.

Every morning is a new day with fresh beginnings. The cliché holds truth . . .

and mercy.

Yesterday the weight of the world fell into the deepest pit of my spirit with a vibrating thud, shattering my stability; questions grew feet and walked in meticulous circles around my brain: What is my purpose in traveling to India, sitting in the back of a cramped classroom and isolated in my room at night? Why did I feel like I was fatefully drawn to this country? What is so different about this place that I could not have done at a student teaching placement back home and saved thousands of dollars? Am I really making the most out of my trip to India if I only stay in Gujarat, which doesn’t have a lot of sights for my camera to capture?

Emotions crashed over me in furious waves, grinding against my expectations until my pieces were sharp –

jaded.

My dreams waded in restlessness; conscious and subconscious pressures stirred a thick chemical fog that loomed over my entire being. But as the ripe sun fell into the shadows, the questions were also buried.

As the faded morning rays weaved through my bedroom window, revealing a new day, the answers were not unearthed, but at least their weight was lifted off my chest. I woke up refreshed and renewed. Instead of blending in with the classroom furniture, this afternoon I taught two periods of 11^th grade English with expressive theatricality and a glimmer in my eye that asked, “How could I think of doing anything else?” The lesson revolved around an unseen text - an excerpt from Kate Chopin’s short story, “Desiree’s Baby” – and its connection to social constructs of female identity and racial heritage. The students were sloth and sullen from the heat, but I could still sense that they were enjoying my energy as I discussed the “wild side” of the American author who defied social norms in a time when females were nothing but shadows of men and America was in war with itself over the issue of slavery.

The school day ended with an exhilarated cluster of around ten 5^th grade students, full of crooked smiles and stories in their outstretched hands. I then retreated to my sun-flooded apartment, thrust open my balcony doors and lay on the cool floor as the sun seduced my body with warm, salty kisses. As the sun waved adieu with fiery tendrils, I spend the remainder of my time reading a book about the triviality of love and loss; I silently sent up a bundle of thanks to the night sky for the one who’s name means “God has consoled my heart” and who consoles my own heart every single day, like healing balm over my layers of scar tissue.  

Yesterday I saw these tasks as mediocre and deprived of meaning, but today the warm reception of the students hugs my spirit, the sun’s rays have a cerebral presence as they hover over my body, and the time to read is appreciated.

It all comes down to one word:

Perspective.