Running Toward Something

The first things my dad taught me about running were to keep my pace steady, to look straight ahead, and to focus on a visible goal. As a child, I avoided anything that required physical activity or sweating, so I didn’t quite appreciate the advice. In the Czech Republic, however, it saved my sanity.

I took up running as my athletic activity of choice to avoid the boredom of lazy afternoons in Sokolov. I would strap on my running shoes and explore the wooded trails behind my apartment building, always keeping an attainable goal within sight. I began by simply dragging myself to the end of the street, and I finished off the year by completing the Prague Marathon 8 months after my first run. From this experience, I learned I could do anything I set my mind to… as long as I set my goals within reach and aimed for them at a slow and steady pace.

Oddly enough, at the ripe old age of 25, I have already accomplished many of the goals I had set out for my life. I feel especially blessed by the many travel opportunities I’ve had and, most importantly, I’m thankful for everything I’ve learned about myself along the way. The cultures I’ve immersed myself in have forced me to adapt a slower, simpler lifestyle, and to appreciate my few possessions and my many friends. During my time overseas, life became slower and somehow more beautiful, as if the world had reinvented itself specifically for me; my goals became clearer and less self-absorbed; I had more free time to accomplish those things that were important to me and fewer distractions to usurp my attention.

But returning to the States has reversed much of the transformation, and the intensity of American culture has swept me back into its grip. Far away from my quiet life in the Czech Republic, I now find myself wandering semi-aimlessly with no concrete goals, constantly distracted by the monotonous stresses of corporate life. I often feel like I’m accomplishing nothing - and nothing can be extremely overwhelming following two years of volunteer service in a post-Communist country. Measuring my current success by comparing it to what I achieved in the past, I find it difficult to enjoy much of anything because of the looming misconception that nothing is “good enough” anymore. As a result, I feel emotionally and motivationally “stuck”, with nothing to move toward.

Running used to provide a mental escape during the day – a chance to relax my mind and simply enjoy my surroundings. In contrast, nowadays when I run along the back trails of the Chattahoochee River Nature Reserve, I practically ignore the beautiful Georgia scenery and plow through the woods, trying to beat the quickly retreating sun. Unable to simply let my mind relax, I mentally plan my evening, my eyes concentrated on the ground immediately in front of me, scanning for avoidable rocks and tree stumps. Essentially, I’ve become the same person I left behind over two years ago.

One day last week, as I was running alongside the river, the ground still wet from the morning showers, a question entered my mind. Why wouldn’t I look up? What was so interesting about the ground that I would prefer it over the green landscape?

It dawned on me I was somehow afraid – afraid that, if I looked up, I would trip on the rocky places in my new life as an “adult”, proving that I couldn’t survive. In that moment, I determined that “not falling” was not a successful goal. The rocks and stumps blocking my way were distractions placed in my path intentionally to keep me from reaching a destination I had lost sight of because of my refusal to stare it in the face.

For some reason, the newness and ambiguity surrounding my return to the USA has made me intensely nervous about he future, to the point that I swim in memories from a distant time that is complete; a life where I was happy and successful, whereas now I have to begin again.

But I’m a survivor, and I have conquered much more than menial tasks and imaginary agendas, and this empowering thought rocketed me forward down the trails. I proved that day – at least to myself and to the trees - that I was capable of more than it seemed. I was tired, lost, and unsure of where I was headed, but I kept going, motivated by my new goal– to overcome whatever fear kept pulling me back to a time that had come and gone.

It was time to move on. My legs lurched forward, and my eyes focused on a horizon that I couldn’t quite make out, but I could see its vague outline.

For the first time in a long time, I looked up.

Komunikace

I just made my first friend in here Atlanta – and it only took me 6 months.

Life in the big city as a young single has hit me hard upside the head following the easy college lifestyle and two years of overseas exploration, and I have few outlets to express the culture shock I’ve managed to hide beneath a naïve obsession with blending into American culture again.

So the table has turned, and now even words in my native tongue are inefficient to express the feelings lurking behind two years of inner change being attacked by values and habits just recently purged. Somehow I feel homesick, though I’m supposedly at home.

In a conversation with a relative, we discussed his various travels to far off destinations, some of which I had never even heard of – he had been to every corner of the globe and learned to appreciate the smaller places and its people the same way I had.

“But, you wanna know something funny,” he cooed as he slid distinguishably back into his chair, with an air that demanded a cigar or a glass of brandy twirling in his left hand, “I was always so relieved to come back to the USA. I don’t think I’ll ever leave it again now that I’m this old – we live in the best country in the world.”

Everyone nodded accordingly, but I just stared down at my thin coffee disagreeingly, too timid to voice my opinion.

I love my country and every memory, friend and family member that I have here, but the continent that I called home for a few short years haunts my life back in the USA in a subtle way that won’t let me simply return to life as normal. It could be that I’m simply holding on to the past, to memories of a carefree and whimsical European existence that I hesitated to leave for a steady job in the States, close to loved ones. But mostly it’s the inability to voice my longing for what I left behind and to verbalize exactly how my time in the Czech Republic changed me as a person that drives my loneliness.

The transition back to the States has itself been overwhelming – moving from a former Communist country just teetering on the twenty-first century and still fascinated by everything natural - where they enjoyed life and appreciated the small pleasures it brought, not its endless consumables. I taught children that appreciated having a native English speaker help them learn the language and mentored others who simply needed someone to talk to – in any language. I felt that what I did mattered, and everything in my life was fascinating and new. I woke up every day invigorated about what I would learn in the next 24 hours and what challenges I would face, or what undisturbed village I would visit next. I was growing.

Atlanta, on the other hand, is a large, metropolitan American city where corporate yuppies my age the flock to materialistic urban condominiums in trendy areas to spend too much money on the same things they could get at Wal-Mart and wait for hours to have drinks at the hippest pick-up spots. Something tells me that this is what I should want for myself – but I feel surrounded by wastefulness and discomfort when I succumb to the pressure. While I recognize that my perception of life back in the States is likely skewed and biased, I still feel separated.

I’m different, but I’m the same. I’m the same, but I’m somehow different. Not even I can accurately earmark the changes, though I know they’re there. There are feelings inside of me that I can’t communicate because of the boundaries that different times and different experiences have created. We are all very caught up in our own lives, and taking time to truly decipher the meaning of spoken words is a luxury we have long forgotten.

So, because spoken words have failed me again, I’m turning to writing once more as an attempt to surface whatever I’ve been keeping quiet. I’m going to recount what I’ve learned about myself over the past 4 years of my life - and I’m going to do it in a most peculiar way.