Did I have an epiphany on my trip?
When I got home from my trip, someone asked me if I had had any epiphanies while I was away. The short jagged truth is no. My brain doesn’t seem to work in epiphanies. I’ve heard the word. I understand the concept, but I don’t remember ever stumbling into a treasure chest. I’ve had sudden good ideas. I’ve gotten lucky and guessed correctly. But the perfect answer is never written blatantly on the wall.
The answers are out there. They’re written on the back of old receipts, or stuffed three layers deep in a dumpster, or made into confetti and spread over an entire continent. The good lessons aren’t always tied together with a bow. You don’t walk up, collect the gift, and walk away. Maybe that’s the way it works for some people — not for me.
Maybe that’s what people want. Maybe that’s what I wanted. That’s why I bought a ticket, took the ride, stayed in shitty hostels, slept in bug-ridden beds, ate street food, drank poisonous tap water and shat my brains out for a week straight. Maybe I wanted an epiphany. I packed my bags, I put in the effort. There was suffering as well as moments of pure joy. I got a running start and cannonballed my way out of my comfort zone and maybe all I wanted was a brilliantly lit, clear-cut, answer.
I didn’t get that answer. Maybe it’s the way I interact with the universe. Maybe it’s timing or tuning. Or maybe I never came up with a specific question in the first place. I’ve got a head filled with thousands of half-chewed questions and millions more that are so jumbled and distorted that they look like abstract inner-brain wallpaper.
It makes sense not getting a single, crystal-clear answer. Instead, I got a two-week experience, and I got a dozen or so bits and pieces of useful lessons. Some of them are more obvious, some of them I still hold in my head like a missing puzzle piece to a puzzle I’ve yet to start constructing. And this doesn’t upset me. For one reason or another, I’ve come to the realization that I’m hardheaded. Not only do I learn in these little bite-sized lessons — I enjoy it. Maybe I prefer it.
I don’t want the answers. No — I do want the answers, but I don’t want them presented to me like a bouquet of flowers. I don’t want to be given anything. These things are better when earned. That’s where I find joy. There’s pleasure in stepping into chaos, watching yourself fall backward out of your comfort zone, feeling vulnerable, having to try harder for simple things and missing the comforts that were intentionally forgone. I have no delusions that that these situations might bring about epiphanies, but I know this is the environment in which I take the most bites out of the wisdom sandwich.
[Just saying “window sandwich” makes me vomit some of the lessons back onto the front of my shirt out of disgust.]
I did learn some shit during my trip to Colombia. I didn't bring back any secret South American book of holy grails. There wasn’t a pinnacle where I “found myself.” I didn’t get any tattooed symbology of my journey. And it’s arguable that I already knew some of the shit I felt like I learned.
I didn’t make this rant to the person asking me about my epiphanies. I told her simply that I had learned something. I told her that I learned to be more inclusive. On this trip, I met so many people who were welcoming in one way or another. People I didn’t know before and probably will never know again. People from different parts of the world with different life experiences. People with different languages and different face shapes and different troubles. More people were helpful to me than I would have ever guessed. They didn’t show up under a beam of sunlight and fade away. They were human. They invited me to join them for food. They pointed to places on the map that I might like to go. They taught me little things, like how to buy a metro ticket, or what “gringo tax” meant, or how to avoid bed bugs. They walked with me. They talked with me. They shared beer and food and offered me drugs. They didn’t do any of it expecting anything in return. They were well aware of the fact that we were all traveling in different directions. Some of them I only knew for one day, or one hour, or one minute. And they were generous. They’d all learned little bits and pieces throughout their trip or their lives and they willingly shared bits and pieces of those bits and pieces with me. I don’t know why they did any of this. But their willingness to include me, to share with me, to trust me and allow me to trust them — it didn’t come as an epiphany, but a slow-burning, valuable lesson.
If I had stayed at hotels, I wouldn’t have met any of the people I met, and I wouldn’t have done ninety-nine percent of the things I did. Maybe I gave up some comfort or cleanliness in the short run, but it was well worth the handful of little lessons I got from inclusive people.
It just so happens that I’m writing this on Thanksgiving night.
To all the people who have ever made the effort to include other people, strangers, travelers, weirdos, stranglers, loners — I’m thankful for you. Thank you for your generosity, and thank you for letting me nibble the crust off your wisdom sandwich.
