The school cafeteria in the primary school in La Pedrera, Uruguay
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Disclaimer
This blog, this post, and all related accounts are not an official Department of State publication, and the views and information presented are the Grantee’s and do not represent the Fulbright Program, ECA, the Post, Fulbright Commission, or the host country’s government or institutions. The last week of August was my first “normal” week in Maldonado. The bright blue sky and newly familiar coastline welcomed me back after a long weekend in Montevideo. Glancing out the hazy bus window, the reflective waves of Punta Ballena winked under the glowing sun. “Keep your chin up, kid,” they whispered.
For the first time in months, I felt rejuvenated. The previous three evenings commemorated Noche de Nostalgia and a friend’s 24th birthday through festivities lasting late into the night. An 11:00 p.m. bowling match melded into a 1:00 a.m. pool tournament, in which I properly learned how to play. (My previous knowledge of the game stemmed from rudimentary solo pool matches in my uncle’s basement at annual Christmas parties. Hint: I did not use the pool cues). Evenings concluded at 3:00 a.m. for carpool karaoke or at 4:30 a.m. for a last-minute McDonald’s run. Although my sleep schedule took a brutal beating, I woke each day hungry for a 1:00 pm breakfast and more time with my chosen Montevideo family. After almost two months of living more out of a backpack than my closet, I found closure in celebrating convivencia —co-existence or togetherness— with my people. It did not matter whether we ate greasy pizza or lavender-vanilla-dulce-de-leche birthday cake with edible glitter. It did not matter whether we wore nostalgic costumes or every day sneakers. It did not matter whether we were crowded around a pool table, on bowling lane seat cushions, in the corner of a bustling neon dance floor, or in the backseat of Mono’s car. What mattered was that we were together. I found peace in our laughter; randomized YouTube playlists on a living room television; Río de la Plata card games (that expanded my Spanish vocabulary in multiple directions); and the secrets and makeup brushes passed on the floor in front of a portable heater. They lifted the cloud of exhaustion. They gave me space to exist in their embraces, so my words could finally be free. Thanks to them, I arrived in Maldonado ready to assemble the chaotic puzzle of August.
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Disclaimer
This blog, this post, and all related accounts are not an official Department of State publication, and the views and information presented are the Grantee’s and do not represent the Fulbright Program, ECA, the Post, Fulbright Commission, or the host country’s government or institutions. . . .A note for context: the first half of this post is sourced from an entry in my personal journal
It’s been ten days since I’ve written in my “daily” journal. Some days, I couldn’t pick up a pen and document the list of activities and emotions packed into twenty-four hours tighter than my winter clothes and travel backpack. Journaling — a dependable grounding practice — suddenly became a burden. Instead of welcoming the discomfort of reliving events and piecing together my complex reactions to life on the road, I left the puzzle pieces scattered in the box.
Whenever I attempted to visit my past, the storm cloud of exhaustion hovered over my subconscious. Our bodies viscerally remember the past and hold the power to recall and simulate the same aches, flutters in our chest, or shortness of breath we feel when our anxiety is triggered. In my first week transitioning (I use this word loosely because four days after this journal entry, I traveled to Rivera) back to Maldonado, I realized that I was repeatedly triggered by exhaustion. The words of resolution were trapped behind the cloud instead of liberated on a blank page. I could not access them. My brain and body were still recovering from the twelve-hour workdays, late-night and early-morning bus rides, and emotionally over-stimulating discussions. I recognized the signs: I was dysregulated. Until the storm cloud lifted, I could not reflect. The puzzle remained unsolved. 
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Disclaimer
This blog, this post, and all related accounts are not an official Department of State publication, and the views and information presented are the Grantee’s and do not represent the Fulbright Program, ECA, the Post, Fulbright Commission, or the host country’s government or institutions. I procrastinated writing this post for days. Every time I circle back to the blank page, the task of revisiting the jam-packed days in Montevideo and Minas washes another wave of exhaustion over me like a rolling tide. However, the soothing balance between hot mango tea and Vashti Bunyan encourages me to give this reflection my best shot.
. . .“The past is history, the future is a mystery, and this moment is a gift. That is why it is called ‘the present.’”
Deepak Chopra |
AuthorMeghan Hesterman (she/her) is an aspiring educator, storyteller, and traveler. Through regular posts and commentary, she candidly reflects on her evolution as an educator and young adult. Categories
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