When I drive through the village, I feel happy about where I am. I feel cautious, too, knowing that I must be respectful and genuine at all times. It is integrity.
The houses feel like they have shifted over time and they now sit close, beckoning to me to say hello and to enjoy our connection. I am here, among you, joyful to be in your presence. I still am hesitant to stop and talk, feeling like an agenda in another language, no matter how benign that agenda may be, is more dangerous.
What if borders were organized on the premise of a division of languages, as though the tower of Babel has advanced to present times and the origin of languages presents us with the root of all of our problems: lack of communication.
The man I am dating speaks another language. The country in which I live speaks another language to both of us. If I did not commune with people through presence, gestures and eye contact, I would be a foreign entity worthy of treating suspect. And the way that I choose to conduct myself around these other languagers is with minimal words and maximal presence/gestures/eye contact so that they can feel my intentions and know that they are benign.
I hope that you can see what I am getting at here…
The first one hundred days... 