misplaced nostalgia

A song comes on that reminds me of my life in Washington DC. I think back to the time I spent in that city, the first big city that I lived in. I try hard to picture the streets, to see my daily sights, to remember my life as it was in that city. It strikes me that my home is here in Zomba now, as thoughts of the glowing street lights, driving on the right, the Giant supermarket in Columbia Heights, and being surrounded by Americans and Latinos seem so foreign in comparison to the dusty roads, the banana trees, the ad hoc markets and being a muzungu (white person) in Africa.

The feeling of a misplaced nostalgia is not new to me. My time in New Zealand and then in Bolivia elicited similar feelings. I think back to my life as it used to be, longing for something or—more pressingly—someone, I idealize those moments, yearning for them only to realize that my place is here now. I am at the same time content and frustrated. There is sacrifice in moving across the world, but yet there is also a gain in perspective and the opportunity to live anew without fear or hesitation. Experience encourages me to keep moving forward with a willingness to venture in new directions and explore new thoughts and emotions. I grasp tightly onto the manner in which I have learned to live my life, embracing all that surrounds me, and continue searching for that next place, the next lesson and perhaps someone with whom to share it.