one week left.

I wrote this in my journal yesterday in my village. I have one week left until I leave.

Rained hard last night- certainly one of the bigger deluges I've seen here. The morning is that soft, lovely quietness that I know I will miss terribly. The feel of sand & dewy leaves against my feet and legs on the walk to the coffee shack... the bitter, strong coffee in the smoky hut... sea either gusting or still as glass... Mama Tutu's sing-songy conversation and kind, gentle laugh... the palm trees glowing in the sun and birds of every kind chattering in the branches near & far... children crying and mothers calling for them, "Avia zanako avia!"... chickens scratching in the dirt & scraping up leaves under the mango trees... the haphazard buckets of rain water strewn about the yards. This is the simple way my day starts, the way my days have started for two years.

My heart begins to break as I think of leaving this place of peace and calm. In one week I will be gone, and since I recently had a couple weeks preview of "city life" in Diego, I know that just the change of pace to the bustle & noise of the city will be challenging enough.

It is with so many mixed emotions that I now live. Part of me cannot wait to begin life again. When I think of attending dance and yoga classes regularly, going to an actual job where I can contribute in a measurable and attainable manner and get paid and buy things, meeting up with friends for drinks and going to events that interest me, being able to hike, boat, rock climb, ski, cook and hang out with my family and friends regularly... all these components of "real life" excite me so much it seems I cannot wait another minute!

But I also want to take some of this place with me, to manifest some of the aspects of community, even-mindedness and patience that are such an integral part of life here. I know it is inevitable that I will struggle throughout the re-adjustment process back into my own culture: everyone says it's harder going back than it was coming here.

In any case, in the meantime, I am living through the last days in my village. Every moment, every interaction has become rich with a fleeting preciousness. It's a strange process too: conversation is always around my leaving, why I want to leave, what souvenirs I'll be giving away. Friends stop by to take things from my house, and I have to practice extreme caution because this causes jealousies and drama amongst the villagers. I have to give something to everyone it seems. It would be easier if I could just lock my house up when I leave with all my belongings inside and leave the keys with the president for him to deal with.

It seems I have nothing, but then I see the look in people's eyes as they gaze longingly at my bed, scissors,  clothes, baskets... they want it all. It is such a bizarre experience.

It's hard too to hear that people are glad I'm leaving or that others don't understand why I'm not staying longer. I've heard since day one that if I don't extend my service as Julia [the PCV before me] did, then I'm not tamana [well-settled]. It is impossible to explain what it means to miss home to a people that have largely never gone beyond the limits of northern Madagascar.

And then there is of course, living through the process of saying goodbye to little Lydia. Already my eyes have teared up a dozen times as she and I joke about how she'll hide in my luggage so I can bring her home, or when she says that she won't miss eating rice when she's in America. How do you say goodbye to a beautiful six-year old girl? How do you part ways with a child who's become one of your greatest friends and confidants?

I will find out in a week...