Pipe Dream

It was just a pipe-dream, but somehow I made it back.

Prague Castle from Charles Bridge

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The empty walls of my room are the only thing that bother me here. Before I came, I worried about whether or not I should. Now that I’m here, this question seems stupid. It feels more natural than I thought it would, even in my most positive imaginings. It is normal for me to be here. It’s not always easy, but the things I struggle with at least make sense to me. They feel like problems that have answers, which is relieving when compared to problems that feel insurmountable, and worse, pointless.

The question that bothers me now is, am I doing it right?

I’m desperate for this place to feel like a home, for me to slip into it and to be unquestioned. I don’t want to feel like a visitor here. And somehow, the commitment we show towards decorating our space seems to signal this. We do not bother putting anything up if we do not intend to stay. But everything happened so fast that I didn’t have time to consider it, to process it. I have an apartment here in a foreign country but it happened so fast that I didn’t have to time to get comfortable (or as my Czech students love to say, Come-for-table?) with this idea. I don’t even really know what the “idea” is. Maybe I’m just creating it in my mind. It would be surprising to none of you who know me, I’m sure, that I have invented a problem, pondering a “concept” which is not fully formed. But it doesn’t really feel like that.

The Lennon Wall

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I guess it’s the idea of building a life. Where do you start? Surely you must be very deliberate in your choices, like planting a seed. Only too late may you realize that you’ve chosen the wrong soil, or the wrong location, or the wrong type of plant for the climate entirely. But you will only realize this far too late.

Have I chosen the right neighborhood? Surely I would be getting more out of Prague if I were in the center, right?

Maybe not, it’s much more touristy there. These quasi-suburbs are much more authentically Czech. It’s probably a better fit for me. Quieter, kinder, softer. But don’t I want to become a new person? Maybe I shouldn’t have chosen a place that was a good fit for me. Or might I then be miserable, and questioning this whole adventure? So maybe it’s not such a bad spot.

But what to put on my walls? Their blankness makes me question my own commitment. I suspect that deep down, I know this is a disaster. Or something. Maybe that’s stupid. After all, I’ve only been in the place for a few months. Maybe we spend too much time thinking about the future. I have this self-imposed timeframe of a year, and that’s kind of fucking with me, to be honest. I think I should let go of that foregone conclusion. Then these things might grow more naturally. I won’t be getting pinched between the fingers of “only for a year” and “make this place a home”, which I realize now are two totally incompatible ideas. I can’t make a life here when there’s this expectation that it will only last for so long. Because then you’re always holding the idea of “what do I do with all this shit when I leave” in the back of your mind.

I love the view from the balcony because it feels like mine. I made the choice for it, it is suitable to me. We found each other, this view and I - like two somewhat inebriated souls on Tinder, we were just kind of attracted to each other, I guess. Don’t think too hard about it. This view wanted to be pondered and I love to ponder it. It’s possibly the best thing about living on the outskirts. The late-night lights twinkle amidst the darkness, distinct enough that they each have some story attached to them, not so amalgamous that they lose their identities.

Shockingly, the thing I don’t question at all is the work, which is what I'd thought would be the most troubling aspect. Goddamn, that was a hell of a sentence. I’m analyzing it like an English teacher, that’s interesting. How would I explain that to a student? Describing past hypothetical thoughts I’d had about the future. But I love teaching, which is evidently surprising to no one, since everyone I’ve told this to responds with something akin to “yeah, no shit”. I guess it’s a good fit for my personality.

I’ll admit something. I was really hesitant about becoming a teacher because for some reason I believed that, to be a teacher, you had to fail at the thing you actually wanted to be. That’s pretty stupid, huh? The only reason I thought I could teach English is because I knew I hadn’t failed at being an English-speaking person, at least most of the time. But then I realized that I also use the inverse of this to justify not being a worthy teacher. Like, as in, to be an English teacher (not as a foreign language) I need to have published a book. While at the same time thinking I couldn’t be a teacher because that would mean I’d fail at being a writer. So I’d have to succeed at being a writer to be a teacher, which would make me fail at being a teacher, by my own ingenious traps of self-sabotage.

What a complicated mess I can be. But sometimes I like that about myself. I’m like a puzzle for me to figure out, and with every piece you put in the right place, you get a better sense of the whole picture, and it becomes easier to fit the next piece in.

My favorite spot in Prague

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There is a concept in Buddhism and Yoga which is relevant to this, which I’ve been thinking about since the end of the last paragraph. There is “sva dharma” and “sat dharma”. Sat Dharma, (“self-realization” or enlightenment) is kind of like a recipe, something we are all called to follow. To achieve our Sat Dharma, we must make use of our personal gifts, our individual path that will give us the opportunity to learn: our Sva Dharma. Sva Dharma is like the ingredients of the recipe. You have to follow the steps a certain way, but the ingredients you use are kind of up to you. I mean, to a certain extent, you’re limited in what ingredients you have available, just like I’m limited in my skills. I will never achieve enlightenment through mathematics, I can fucking guarantee you that. But right now I feel as though I have a lens to focus me. I am encountering this sva dharma in work that is meaningful to me.

(As an aside, shout out to Fabiana, who put the idea of “meaningful work” into my head, which I’ve thought of almost everyday since leaving home. Here’s looking at you kid, you Raymond Chandler “The Big Sleep”-style aspiring femme-fatale, clad in a floor-length ball gown with a delicate, thin cigarette held carelessly between your fingers, thoughtlessly expelling spiraling smoke as you stare off into the abyss, dreaming of the life you could have had if you'd simply ran off with that boy who died at war.)

It’s giving me an opportunity to see the ways I limit myself and reasons to confront that. I can’t allow myself to wallow in depression because I have to work – and the work is enjoyable enough to me that I’m not able to say “fuck it” and go back to be. It’s a frame of reference for self-improvement, and even if I decide I don’t want to live here, or that I don’t want to be a teacher, or whatever, it will have been worth it, just for that.

Oh, and in a more practical analysis of living abroad, just fucking buy furniture that’s already been put together. If I never set foot in Ikea again, it’ll be too soon.