Greener Grass

When I was a little girl, I was a Native American who could slink silently across our backyard in leather moccasins, an unbelievably beautiful mermaid trapped in our shallow inflatable pool on the back patio, a medieval princess fleeing from an evil babysitter, a hungry pioneer wearing a makeshift bonnet and gathering unripe raspberries from our poor bushes, a misunderstood orphan dramatically trying to escape the "orphanage" (a.k.a, my house) by taking off down the sidewalk towards the neighbors' (because no one would ever think to look for me there...). In my fantasies, my hair was always straight and jet black instead of curly and blond; my eyes were blue instead of green. My imagination allowed me to be what I was not, particularly when I thought I would be better suited to an entirely different place and era. 

As ardently as I enjoyed and appreciated living in Istanbul last semester, there inevitably came the moment when I missed home. If I remember correctly, we were sitting in an especially drawn-out lecture on the implications of gold mining for a remote region of Turkey. It had been a chilly and wintery morning again...we had trudged to the classroom through icy slush and soggy cigarette butts.

My pencil strayed from my notes to the margin of my notebook and began doodling as if guided by a hand not my own. The sketch took shape: a strong and gnarled tree, tufts of grass at its base. An unoccupied wood-and-rope swing. I stared at what I'd drawn longingly as if gazing through a window. I imagined plunging headfirst into this scene redolent with the essence of carefree childhood summers. Yes, I missed the rich damp earthy smell of June rains and blackberry blooms and boardwalks by the bay in Washington State. I missed feeling known, understood. I missed being sure about who God was and what His goals for me were. 

Many, many times since returning to the States, I've longed to be back in Turkey. I miss riding the ferry, sipping at a tiny little glass of steaming black tea, watching the seagulls dodge each other above the Bosphorus. I miss buying flowers from the Roma for way more lira than should be spent on something that will wilt within the week...miss carrying them from Taksim square back to Galata tower and feeling poetic and putting the tiny, fragrant blooms in a water glass. I miss dodging the untamable city traffic while crossing the street or exploring some new part of Istanbul, learning how to navigate, feeling a little BA. I miss hearing the Call to Prayer (yes, even at indecent hours of the day/night) and the way it reminded me of how I was a punitive Christian fish in a sea of Muslim believers. I miss climbing up several stories of stairs (winded..calves burning..) in old, old buildings...knowing that thousands of feet have tromped up the same stone steps.

I miss delighting in the night lights, the Aya Sofya and the Yeni Cami aglow in the distance. And oh the skyline! Blue and gold in the evenings. I miss strolling past those brightly lit fish restaurants along the Golden Horn with a heady sense of all the possibilities of a passionate future. I miss hunkering down in coffee shops kept warm in the wintertime. I miss devouring pistachio and pomegranate Turkish delight and the entertainment of trying to charm young male shopkeepers. I miss visiting the art museums, gleaning endless inspiration, and catching sight of Istanbul's elite artsy crowd. I even miss being part of the morning subway commute and munching a simit on-the-go. Taking the stairs instead of the escalator. Admiring Istanbul's fashionable women, their peacoats, their boots, their scarves. Getting soaked by sleet on the way to a church meeting and regretting not owning an umbrella -- on the same day that Istanbul lost electricity for hours and hours. Seeing the ubiquitous Atatürk lounging in photographs on the ferries, above our classrooms, in thrift shops and on book covers. 

What an unfortunate thing that we are so prone to be dissatisfied with what we have and where we are. I, for one, know my tendency to yearn for something, someone, or somewhere that is out of my reach. 

Thank goodness God doesn't always give us what we want right away, or even at all. 

But in an unpredictable change of pattern, I am actually content with being here, now. 

When one of my roommates was desperately missing life as a counselor at a Christian summer camp, I recognized that aching and dissatisfied look in her eyes -- like it mirrored my own feelings when I perceive being back in the States as a drab, flat, limp, shallow experience. Sympathetically, my other roommate suggested that we transform our room into a foresty scene reminiscent of camp. 

But as much as I would love to revitalize the wilting heart of my friend and roommate (and would love to plaster our ceiling with Iznik tiles that remind me of the magnificent mosques and museums of last semester), I knew it simply wouldn't be the same. I knew that it's impossible to recreate something that can never be matched. 

I don't always enjoy being in the Santa Barbara bubble. I miss the iridescence of life abroad exploring and having an infinite variety of intense things to think about and conversations to have with people very different from myself. 

How do you show or explain to someone who has no concept of life outside of California how much you are forever changed? How your faith and attitudes have been altered? 

Despite these questions and so many others, I have been overcome by the love of my friends here, and the gracious ways in which God is revealing truths to me in this specific community. 

God has already fulfilled so many of the desires of my heart. The least I can do right now is praise Him with the joy of contentment. This peace surpasses all understanding. The grass is pretty green on this side, too. 

My eyes are not blue, nor will they ever be. I'm not a resourceful Indian fleeing from frontiersmen or a blasé Parisian flapper in the 1920's or the disconsolate wife of a soldier in the Second World War or a fierce princess in Medieval times. I'm a green-eyed, twenty year-old American college student in the 21st century. And that's okay with me.