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My stomach feels heavy and sad. Today I came back from end of stay camp at Verona, the last camp we do together before Rome. The last time it will be just us from the Triveneto before I go back to New Zealand. Please notice I said New Zealand. I would say home, but I’m a little confused about where that is at the moment...
This camp has been a whirlwind of emotions, veramente. I’ve cried, I’ve laughed, I’ve shouted and I’ve whispered. Happy, sad, lovesick, angry, everything. The purpose of this camp was to discuss our year here, and our rientry nel proprio paese, and though there’s still a month left, this is the beginning of the end like it wasn’t a week ago. I look at the days on my calendar and my stomach feels even sadder because I know how fast they’ll pass.
But this camp has been...indescribable. It’s the first time I’ve realised how much I’ve changed here, how I’m not the person I was when I came here, nine months ago. All that long winter, those empty afternoons staring at the television, I was being fermented. I was being refined. I was being reduced down to the very essences of me, the parts loneliness and isolation can’t cut off. Some of these parts I didn’t know I had, until my pretensions were cut away and I could see right into my core. And then when the spring came, I grew again. I left the house and talked to people. I danced and laughed and made friends. I added new parts to me, to make up for the ones I lost during my endurance. Some of them are similar to what I had before, but not all. And they are not the same.
And now here I am, on the verge of going back and I’m biting my finger cos there’s tears in my eyes because I find I don’t want to. The long dark of winter was hard and god, there’s no way I can deny that, no way, but then my blossoming has been so sweet, and so short, and so intense, that the thought of leaving everything I’ve gained makes me hurt inside.
I’m a stronger person than nine months ago, and even as I write these words and try and pretend I’m not crying, I know I can do it. I just don’t want to. I don’t love you in New Zealand any less, but I’ve found a place here as well, a family and a bed and
And a home. And I don’t want to leave home again.
But I can, I know I can. I know whatever I face, I’m not alone. I know that even if in New Zealand, they turn their backs and find other things to do, I won’t be alone. I’m afraid of my return, but I’m not the only one.
Last night, we sat in a circle and one by one, lit a candle for our experience. Through this experience, I’ve learned how to listen, and when to speak - Through this experience, I’ve learnt who I am, what I am and why I am - Through this experience, I’ve learnt the true meaning of family - I came here to leave behind my problems, but while here I’ve learnt that I have the forza to deal with them when I get home - My experience here has been amazing, but this candle is for my little sister who’s been growing up without me, and who I can’t wait to see again - I blow out a candle, because my time here is nearly over - I light a candle, for all of us, because we face this together and wherever we go, we spread light, or at least try to.
To sit there in the dark, to watch the tears glisten on people’s faces in the candlelight and hear their voices choked with tears as they shared their raw emotions moved me more than I can put in to words. Yes, I cried, and I’m crying now. Yes, I was sad. But there was someone next to me crying as well, and they were gripping my hand as hard as I was gripping theirs and though we cried, we cried together. Because we’re more than just individual people with our individual experiences, and this I’ve only just understood. Intercultura really is a – a community, a family, a whanau, a word that doesn’t exist but is no less strong because of it. These people, some of whom I’d met only twice, were sharing the same emotions as I had, they were revealing the most intimate parts of themselves to me, and I to them, because of the trust we have in each other - not even personal trust, but trust as a group.
And it was this that touched me most profoundly in this camp. The glow of candles and the sounds of sobs, each of us lost in our communal grief.
This camp has been a whirlwind of emotions, veramente. I’ve cried, I’ve laughed, I’ve shouted and I’ve whispered. Happy, sad, lovesick, angry, everything. The purpose of this camp was to discuss our year here, and our rientry nel proprio paese, and though there’s still a month left, this is the beginning of the end like it wasn’t a week ago. I look at the days on my calendar and my stomach feels even sadder because I know how fast they’ll pass.
But this camp has been...indescribable. It’s the first time I’ve realised how much I’ve changed here, how I’m not the person I was when I came here, nine months ago. All that long winter, those empty afternoons staring at the television, I was being fermented. I was being refined. I was being reduced down to the very essences of me, the parts loneliness and isolation can’t cut off. Some of these parts I didn’t know I had, until my pretensions were cut away and I could see right into my core. And then when the spring came, I grew again. I left the house and talked to people. I danced and laughed and made friends. I added new parts to me, to make up for the ones I lost during my endurance. Some of them are similar to what I had before, but not all. And they are not the same.
And now here I am, on the verge of going back and I’m biting my finger cos there’s tears in my eyes because I find I don’t want to. The long dark of winter was hard and god, there’s no way I can deny that, no way, but then my blossoming has been so sweet, and so short, and so intense, that the thought of leaving everything I’ve gained makes me hurt inside.
I’m a stronger person than nine months ago, and even as I write these words and try and pretend I’m not crying, I know I can do it. I just don’t want to. I don’t love you in New Zealand any less, but I’ve found a place here as well, a family and a bed and
And a home. And I don’t want to leave home again.
But I can, I know I can. I know whatever I face, I’m not alone. I know that even if in New Zealand, they turn their backs and find other things to do, I won’t be alone. I’m afraid of my return, but I’m not the only one.
Last night, we sat in a circle and one by one, lit a candle for our experience. Through this experience, I’ve learned how to listen, and when to speak - Through this experience, I’ve learnt who I am, what I am and why I am - Through this experience, I’ve learnt the true meaning of family - I came here to leave behind my problems, but while here I’ve learnt that I have the forza to deal with them when I get home - My experience here has been amazing, but this candle is for my little sister who’s been growing up without me, and who I can’t wait to see again - I blow out a candle, because my time here is nearly over - I light a candle, for all of us, because we face this together and wherever we go, we spread light, or at least try to.
To sit there in the dark, to watch the tears glisten on people’s faces in the candlelight and hear their voices choked with tears as they shared their raw emotions moved me more than I can put in to words. Yes, I cried, and I’m crying now. Yes, I was sad. But there was someone next to me crying as well, and they were gripping my hand as hard as I was gripping theirs and though we cried, we cried together. Because we’re more than just individual people with our individual experiences, and this I’ve only just understood. Intercultura really is a – a community, a family, a whanau, a word that doesn’t exist but is no less strong because of it. These people, some of whom I’d met only twice, were sharing the same emotions as I had, they were revealing the most intimate parts of themselves to me, and I to them, because of the trust we have in each other - not even personal trust, but trust as a group.
And it was this that touched me most profoundly in this camp. The glow of candles and the sounds of sobs, each of us lost in our communal grief.
