ramblin'

After living a month in Senegal, I've stumbled across myself in that strange way that happens every now and then, when I feel as though I'm waking up and stretching from limb to limb on a bed in a room that I've been sleeping in for some time, renting out long enough that everything is familiar when I go down the stairs, even though I can't remember having done this before.

I'm serenaded by Voodoo's lanky, wiry little chios morning and night, with chants of "hayya ala-l-falah, hayya ala-l-falah" (Hasten to real success. Come to prayer.) in the background, crackling through the mosque speakers at every prayer time. At the sound of the call to prayer, people gather on the slab of concrete outside of my front door to pull their prayer mats from a nearby tree, unroll them and lay them out toward mecca. The habits I've grown accustomed to and the faces I see every day make me feel like this is what I've known forever, but I'm also finding myself more at home in the challenges.

Trying to soak up the languages around me, realizing that I have to study and work at it, has kept me alert and mentally active in my interactions with Senegalese. I realize that I had this idea that somewhere inside of me, half-way hidden away, I carried a pocket of language that was soaking everything up and would one day just be saturated and I could ring out everything I've ever wanted to say in flawless French or Wolof. This is certainly not the way things are, but in this case, at least, the struggle presents its own reward and I'm enjoying it more and more as time goes on, especially as I'm simultaneously engrossed in the role of linguistics in different communities and in the history of Senegal.

I've realized more and more as I pass through time that being able to snuggle into foreign places and manifest in being out of my element is how I build my home, and that the same peregrine nature that keeps me exploring is also what makes me feel so grounded in places. I often see places and people in very similar ways. I feel like I have this home in my head with which I am perfectly contented, and I love all of the rooms in it that I know, but there are always rooms that I've passed by and never opened up. Then each time I do open a door, I recognize something in it and it is a part of the complete picture that was just idle until I illuminated it. I guess like a paint-by-numbers picture. This is why, though I don't miss Minneapolis, I certainly am excited to revel in life there when I get back.