To my Future Children, for when you find that the cares of this world fit uncomfortably upon you,
I was in Kathmandu, Nepal, riding around town in a taxi. My missionary team and I have come from the city’s most unprosperous outskirts, running a vpk system for families with two working parents. And on this day, after five weeks, we were quite hungry for something touristy. Sightseeing and foods. Longing for the familiar.
We hopped out in a busy, dusty mall district, chasing a fantastically foretold restaurant called the Lazy Gringo. Those enchiladas, quite seriously, might’ve been the best I’ve ever had. The Lazy Gringo even had Dr. Pepper, which prompted a noticeable, previous absence of of that sweet, cherry, throat scalping drink from any eatery or grocer prior.
It was at this time that I realized, I don’t have my backpack. I looked around quickly. There were no other parties taking joy in a gringo’s laziness. I left it in the cab. I took the narrow, winding alley, black iron stair down three at a time, back out through the dusty mall district, hoping the taxi would be waiting, smiling pitifully, backpack raised in-hand. Of course, he was no where to be found. I looked up on my phone how to retrieve such a lost item from such a circumstance at such a time, and the internet provided less than ideal results.
See, at this point, it might be worth noting that my backpack contained only two items: my in-case-of-emergency-frisbee, and my laptop (containing an unrecoverable breath of primitive Illyadra). Two very important items. And my next course of action, given all factors, was a prompt scoop of my hand in a downward motion followed by a mental, “screw it.”
I stopped caring. The thing was gone. No sense fretting over the uncontrollable. The irreparable. The unrecoverable.
Among my fellow, devout Christian missionaries, I was praised for my quick detachment of love for personal belongings. “This guy gets it.” And, “He would sell all of his things and fit through a needle.” But I’m not so certain.
Looking back, thoroughly throughout my life, there is this series of moments when something is lost, or I’ve been hurt, or disappointed, and I flip this switch. The Caring Switch. The control panel which maneuvers my emotional attachment to a given scenario or person. This switch is worn with use. It’s axel is oiled, a mere prompting of the wind might coax its off position. Not one of those rusty, unused attic switches which might take a firm press of the finger, or an incessant re-flipping in either direction to spark reaction.
I’ve flipped this switch on school and her projects; on love interests, deeming their unimportance to my proximity. I’ve flipped this switch on my parents, painting the detachment as forgiveness. As if, digging a chasm between the dramatic and myself might cease influence, or affect, upon me.
And perhaps it does. Certainly, this coping mechanism would be well documented and tested and noted upon by psychologists smarter than I. But I find the switch to be more nuanced than disassociation, there is no day-dreaming, spaciness, or fog coming about at such a flipping.
My concern, primarily, is the morality of this switch.
I suppose, my first inclination to dealing with the Switch’s goodness, would be to dwell on my affections since practicing it’s un-use.
Photo creds to Kole Purdy, for hauling his heavy camera equipment and exceptional talents with us through Nepal.
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