It’s hard to believe that I’ve been back from America for a year now. A year ago today I was up in the air flying around the world, and here I am sitting in a chair, surrounded by books, overwhelmed by stress, and feeling less accomplished than ever. I understand the “importance” of school-- that is… a financial security to support a family; believe me, if I didn’t think that someday I would be supporting a family… I don’t even know. I probably would have moved to India and got a job as a rickshaw wallah (the thought of this has been quite a romantic, comical, and unrealistic fantasy of mine for some time now). I’ve never been a fan of financial security for myself… deep down, I know there are people out there that deserve it more than I do, and I don’t think I deserve it much. American living has been getting to my head more than ever in the past week. For at least a month I refused to have a space heater in my room because I didn’t want to get used to the luxury… but I found myself sleeping in the living room where the heater is. Finally I put a space heater in my room, and it has been running since I first turned it on.
One day it got to me: I was leaving my friends house, and it was almost 1am and below freezing outside. I climbed into my car and it was painfully freezing; I wanted to do nothing more than to just turn on the heater and rescue myself from this burning sensation that came from exposure to the cold for a few seconds. But then I started thinking about how it’s below freezing here, and I know that somewhere in the world – heck, somewhere in Fresno-- there is someone sleeping outside on the cold ground, without proper blankets or a proper sweatshirt, too cold to feel their toes, guilty for not being able to take care of their families on their meager or non-existent incomes: here I am, turning on the heater.
In remembrance of all those “patient and toiling; more patient than crags, tides, and stars; innumerable, patient as the darkness of night – and all broken, humble ruins of nations” (Carl Sandburg) I turned off my heater and I rolled down all my windows and drove 16 miles home with the freezing winds on my ears, nose, and white knuckles that clutched to my freezing steering wheel. Here in my car, for 20 minutes I poured out my libations to the broken. When I arrived home I was almost convinced I had frostbite: I had a slush-puppy like sloshiness in the blood at my numb fingertips. I got home and rushed for my living room, but then stopped, turned around, and walked back out to the street and said a prayer for those humble ruins of nations; that they would be fed and clothed and warmed on this night and every night that God was love, and that I --if I could be so blessed-- I would have something to do with it. But just like the men who would pour their libations to the gods, I poured out a little wine onto the ground and enjoyed the rest. I walked into my house, and warmed my frozen hands. Something tells me that I would have not been able to be joyful or content that night unless my fingers had to be amputated from the cold; then again, it would just be something to clear my conscious. “I shall be content to be restless." (Gandhi)