Recently I had a dream where I was back at home and, unlike other dreams I’ve had in Lesotho, I wasn’t visiting or vacationing – I had finished my Peace Corps service.
I took my mother’s car and drove to the grocery story. The place didn’t seem like Pierre, rather a composite of Pierre, Brookings and Sioux Falls, an unusual compilation that makes sense in my head. I wanted to get coffee and ingredients for banana bread because I was going to wake up and enjoy these luxuries with that morning’s episode of “Today”.
The scene cuts to one where I am talking to another volunteer. We are at some type of antique store, looking at shoes.
“Can you believe that we are home?” I say to her picking out a hideous pair for an upcoming beach vacation with my family. “It feels like the last few months just flew. I barely remember them. I wish I wouldn’t have wished away my time so much.”
My second year seemed to start with promise and hope that struggles would be few, but I’ve found myself in the same fetal position as last year. It takes more courage than I care to admit to get out of bed and go on with my responsibilities. Some days, I dream about escaping under the covers and letting another day pass.
I have six months left and that is daunting. Can I really last that long, I ask myself. It’s not that I am completely miserable but I am ready to be finished with this portion of my life and move on to what is next.
Then I have days when the time seems to short. I want it to last forever.
Soon, my time will be up and while I am able to watch all the “Today” I want, I know that I will dream of this village. I do not want to waste these last precious months, so I must find whatever that thing is and cherish it like a jewel. I must keep hold of it and make sure I am present here and not wondering about a different life. This will be gone soon and I want to know I used every second.