a little shock...

It’s raining here again. And we’ve been waiting for it. After months of oppressive heat in a dusty, dry Managua, I was anxious for water, for green, for anything that might cool it down a little. And last night, it poured. Infrastructure is lacking here and roads easily flood with a torrential downpour like we had, so plans to go out with friends were quickly canceled and I was trapped in the house.

Thunder and lightning accompany any good storm and rolling, rumbling thunder can actually seem comforting to me, even alone in this big house. I like the reminder that things aren’t always quiet and peaceful, that there’s beauty and variation in tumult. That this energy and falling water ushers us into a different part of the year, a part full of growth. And in the midst of this reflection (which was likely partially to keep me from feeling as alone as I was) there was an instant of light - everything illuminated – followed rapidly by a crack of thunder that felt like it was all encompassing, felt like it split through space and was somehow inside of me and I jumped and gasped… and then took a few deep breaths and smiled at myself.

It was kind of funny. I’m sitting there, listening to thunder, contemplating thunder, waiting for more thunder, and when there’s a crack I still gasped, I was still frightened by it. It’s instinctual, I suppose, because it didn’t actually scare me. But it threw me off for a second and certainly got my blood flowing.

As I was talking about last night’s storm with the cook this morning, I realized that my moment of thunder shock bears striking resemblances to my preconceptions of my upcoming return to the US and my anticipated culture shock. I’ve been thinking lots this week about the joys that await me in Minnesota this summer, but also about the transition time, the anger and confusion about all the ‘extra’ at home, and the fact that Managua’s reality and Northfield’s reality exist simultaneously. To imagine these two different worlds makes sense to me. They make sense when they are separate and disconnected, they make sense when I keep them detached from each other…but in that instant of light, that week where I’ve been in both places and they’re both still so real to me - the contrast between the two is jarring. Questions split through theoretical space and somehow become a constant part of me, relentless, driving, without answers. As much as I’ve been contemplating it and waiting for the tumult, it’s still frightening.

It’s instinctual, I suppose. A raging thunderstorm or long-awaited flight home. As much as we are wired to jump when we hear loud noises I believe we’re designed to gasp in the face of such belligerent disparity. A little shock gets the blood flowing.