The Things We Leave Behind

"Nothing Gold Can Stay"

Robert Frost

        Nature's first green is gold,

        Her hardest hue to hold.

        Her early leaf's a flower;

        But only so an hour.

        Then leaf subsides to leaf.

        So Eden sank to grief,

        So dawn goes down to day.

        Nothing gold can stay.

        One of the most difficult things about living abroad is receiving news from home.  You try and stay as connected as you can while still immersing yourself in your experience and appreciating the present, but sometimes those miles of oceans and mountains can seem even more distant than usual.  Receiving news from home – whether it’s “good” or “bad” – is one of those times.

        The thing that has affected me the most from receiving serious news from home over the years is the sheer weight and distance of it all.  There is no nice or delicate way to say this, but it’s the reality that you’re not actually there.  New jobs, graduate school, engagements, new life, and loss.  I hear about these events via Skype and Facebook, not from actually talking to people.  Human connections and whatnot. 

        The JET Program arms you with materials that theoretically prep you for culture shock when you arrive in Japan, and reverse culture shock when you go home.  But what about the shocks in between?  Both the pleasant and unpleasant shocks life can throw our way, which are seemingly intensified over an ocean?  How do we deal with love, pain, life, and death through a computer screen?  How do we deal with the oppressive awareness that things are not “the same,” and never will be again? 

        It may seem trivial talking about the things I miss about home when I’m realizing an amazing opportunity to live and work in a foreign country, but sometimes I can’t help it.  The home I imagine is nearly three years old, so when a friend or family member tells me that the restaurant we used to always eat at lost its lease or that little shop that sold great stationary is closed, I am genuinely shocked, and sometimes even a little upset. 

        Change isn’t inherently bad.  Time changes our ideas and personalities, ultimately who we are.  I’m not the same person I was two and a half years ago – and hopefully that’s a good thing.  I continually hope that this experience has made me a better person, and has taught me to appreciate the world around me and this path God has led for me.  But at the same time, I’d be lying if I said I’m not scared shitless.  Not being in control of the events around me, and the events that surround my loved ones so far away, is terrifying.

        It’s the sense of helplessness and the revelation that we are so fragile that scares me the most.  You think that you prepare for those ambiguous “things” and “what ifs,” but despite your preparations they will still happen.  There is nothing you can do about it: That in itself is a fact of life.  But it’s the fallout in the seconds, minutes, hours, and days following a storm when you can’t do anything due to time and distance that is uniquely frustrating and maddening.

        This is the harsh reality that no training materials can prepare you for: Change will happen whether you like it or not.  You can’t celebrate the small victories in life with the people you used to.  You can’t physically hug someone when something goes terribly wrong.  You can’t share your germs with friends.  You end up “liking” tons of Facebook status updates and making plans to Skype in an attempt to keep those connections and relationships strong.  You try.

        But it’s not the same.  The things we leave behind may eventually become the things we've lost, because, really, nothing gold can stay.