remembering perspective

Traveling helps me.  

I get a month every summer to see a whole new world, remember what I love most about the one I left behind, examine the parts of me that I need to change, reaffirm the parts that need to stay, and transform into a better version of myself through the journey.

This my last night in Kenya.  I leave tomorrow.

My time here has been spent living with a family that had no electricity or running water, teaching in an orphanage where kids had no books or supplies, touring slums where millions of people live in tents next to one another, and everything in between.

As I reflect back on the past month, the past year, and the past three years of journeys, I am struck by one glaring truth: life is about perspective.

There are days in New York that really try me.  I go home exhausted, frustrated, and despondent.  I walk the ten blocks to my home, up the five flights of stairs to my apartment, and try to get it together before the next morning.  

Most often, these days run together for a series of weeks that are commonly referred to as "winter."

I'm not being sarcastic. 

In those moments I wish for the ability to alter the earth on her axis so that I can tilt New York closer to the sun.  But that wouldn't address the issue of my attitude, it would only make it easier for me to not have to address the issue of my attitude. 

What I wish, for those days, is the ability to alter my perspective. 

I wish that I could stop myself in the midst of every frustration and remember.

Remember.

When my car has a flat tire, that I have a car.

When my pencil breaks, that I have supplies.

When my schedule tires me, that I have a job.

When my shoe has a hole in it, that I have a shoe.

When I have to do laundry, that I have clothes and the ability to clean them.

When I have to pay bills, that I have the means to do so.

When I miss my family, that I have a family to miss.

It's so easy to remember when I'm on the back of a motorbike driving through dust storms that I can't help but inhale, leaving my face a darker versions of its true self and my mouth desperate for water.

It's so easy to remember when I'm walking through a slum in Nairobi, easily the dirtiest place I've ever been, next to two armed police officers, amid millions of people that call the sheets of metal surrounding me their homes.

It's so easy to remember when the I watch the kids in my host family rotate between the three donated shirts that they've been given so that they can each where something different every few days, always with smiles on their faces.

It's so easy to remember when I watch an entire nation of women live in service to men, second class citizens determined in the womb.

In fact, it's so easy to remember that I swear I'll never forget.  

But, I do.  

I do.  

Over and over again.

I do.

I go home and I fall back into me. 

Days are long.  I get tired.  Things come up.  I get cold.  Life happens.

Regardless of how valid my frustrations feel at the time, I want to remember.

I want to remember every day for the rest of my life.  

With the sound of every flushing toilet, running sink, opinion of a woman, and flick of a light switch, I want to remember.

If you know me, if our paths cross in daily life, and especially if you consider me to be a friend, remind me when I forget.

I want to remember.