I love Bolivia.
I love Bolivians.
I love living in Bolivia.
I love my Bolivian children.
I love my Bolivian life.
I love that I have been able to raise my children in Bolivia.
I love our Bolivian friends.
I love the missionaries in Bolivia.
I love Bolivian food.
I love the landscapes of Bolivia.
I love the diversity of Bolivia.
I love what Bolivia has taught me.
I love the humility, the quiet fury, and the endurance of the Bolivian people.
I love Bolivian art.
I love the language of Bolivia.
I love the rhythm of Bolivian living.
I love Bolivia.
Now I am leaving Bolivia.
Bolivia has left it’s mark on my body on my soul on the very threads of my being. In case I haven’t made it clear, which is highly likely since at this time clarity eludes me: I don’t want to leave Bolivia.
Yet, I know we must. Things could not go on the same. Big change necessitated a big decision. Most people have been very tactful about the lingering “why?”; I appreciate that. The ones who need to know why do know why. For that security of trust and advice I am ever grateful. I am even more grateful for the ones who let the uncomfortable silence of unanswered questions sit between us, and don’t push, and don’t push away either.
Ah, my dears.
It’s been my belief that it is always harder for the ones who stay than for the ones who go. I feel like we are ripping ourselves out of the lives of people we love and who love us; it hurts. I feel horrible, like I am inflecting intentional pain. I am sorry for all the pain.
The weird part? The intensity of sorrow twists and throbs with the very opposite feelings of contentment and hope. That’s tearing me up, most of all! I am sad to leave Bolivia but happy to go to those who are waiting to catch us in the States.
I’m told this is normal. Gah. Normal is weird.