Am I really so Jaded?

At a certain point in this line of work I think everyone comes to a tipping point. It probably varies drastically for everyone, but if you spend enough of your life in foreign countries trying to help, protect, teach, or monitor various "less fortunate" people you inevitably end up at the tipping point. From where I'm standing now it looks something like this:

1. You've gotten either really good at what you do or really good at making sure no one notices you're bad at it. It doesn't really matter which one it is for the purpose of the tipping point, because if it’s the former than you already know and if it’s the latter you’re probably are too unaware to care. But never the less there is security and some semblance of pride in being at this level of professional "competency" and you are leery to let it go.

2. You've made it high enough up the job latter that you actually have something to lose by walking away. Of course you didn't get in to this type of work for the money or the accolades, but now that your getting some of both it's a nice perk. Plus, it’s not like you have any other marketable skills…how many fortune 500s really need someone to get one ton of chlorine tablets to a remote village in less than 24 hours?

3. You probably spend more of your time behind a computer than anything else, often in an office type setting. No one likes to admit this, and we all tend to hide it from the people outside of our little world so that the mystique remains. But in fact we have become the very Dilbert cartoon we were likely fleeing from in the first place, only with different key buzz words plugged in. One moment you were riding horse back through rebel held territory to bring food to the starving, the next your in slacks and a tie in a board room discussing funding repositioning for fiscal year 2012. It all happened some smoothly you didn't even notice...but it is nice to wake up in a clean bed in an air conditioned room, and after all the time you've put in don't you deserve it?

4. At least once every day you question the vary existence of your job. You have been around long enough to realize very little changes, and the same people and ideas going around in 1960 are going around now, only their packaged and emailed with more pizzazz.

5. You have a sinking feeling that you might be making things worse and not better. You tried to trick yourself into thinking that maybe at least "life-saving" humanitarian work would provide the black and white, right and wrong aspect you were looking for. But after years of corrupt food distributions, politically manipulated medicine, and utterly worthless protection endeavors you are losing hope.

6. You realize that you might be as bad as the bad guys that make money off human misery. The blood diamond merchant, the oil executive cutting deals with genocidal presidents, the aid worker getting paid six figure salaries because someone else can't get food to eat. We are all making money off the back of the poor; some people are just a bit more transparent about it.

And as you realize this it seems like you either have two options, the tipping point:

The Hardening Option: You harden your heart to these nagging questions and doubts and become a cold cynical aid worker until either you can retire to a boozy bliss or die of lung cancer. You may do this by selling out and working for a high paying contractor, the World Bank, or the UN, or you may join MSF and kick ass at what you do, the whole time bitching about the practice of aid in general and looking down on everyone around you. It doesn't matter who you are working for, the point is that you made the plunge and you can NEVER go back to normal life. This is what you do and who you are, for better or for worse.

The Closing Shop Option: Faced with the realities around you and the ambiguities in your soul you simply give up and walk away. You'll always be somewhat connected to the international community, after all, you used to live in the most recently formed country before it was a country. But you can't ever really care about it all again, it takes too much out of you and leaves too many questions. You find something else to take over your drive, open a restaurant or run a travel agency; after all you have plenty of good stories to tell. But your old life will always scare you a little and you'll never be totally settled in your new life.

As for me...I have no idea. I've come to the summit and it seems like which ever way the wind blows will decide my fate, I just hope the universe knows what it's doing.

*I suppose some people do find a third option called academia. You still get to stay involved, but only from a critical impractical stand point. You might "practice" every now and again, but if you fail your able to chalk it up to an academic exercises and still place value it in, which seems like cheating to everyone else. Plus, everyone else hates this group because they are either reminding us of things we want to forget or telling us how we are doing our job wrong from their ivory tower. But hey, at least they have their summers off.

Friendship in the Review Mirror

It’s amazing the places and ways that the memories of friendships sneak up on you. Life being this series of encounters that it is has a way of transitioning from one moment to the next without you even realizing it, only to look back and see how far you have come…or how far you have moved away depending on your perspective. And then at the most random of moments old memories trickle forward like a slow stream of consciousness brought forth by the most mundane aspects of daily life.

I went for a walk in the woods today, alone with my thoughts my mind tends to wonder, ranging from recent Simpson’s episodes (great) to questions about the purpose and structure of prayer (confusing). And yet as I walked alone through the woods I couldn’t help but think of one of my old college roommates.

It was a cold February day in Indiana; we had just had the first big snowfall of the year, one of those snows that cling to the trees as though some divine hand had painted on the snow to cling to every crevice available. And despite the low hanging clouds the snow stands out bright white against the dark bark of the trees, as if for a moment the world has actually become and Ansell Adams photo. The flakes were still slowly tumbling to the ground and it was quiet as I bundled up and headed into the woods. I had my Dad’s old 35 mm camera in hand, with a vain hope that I would somehow be able to capture the moment on film. The forest was quiet, muffled as though wrapped in a blanket, the only sounds being the moaning of the trees when ever a breeze would pass through, burdened under the weight of the fresh snow. I felt alone in the world, enjoying every deep breath even as it hurt my throat going down, freezing my lungs from the inside out. But as I walked I had a strange feeling that I wasn’t alone, circling my gaze every few minutes trying to catch a glimpse of what ever was with me. But it was nothing, and I moved on trapped inside my own head as I lumbered through the drifts and over fallen logs.

And then, out of no where…BAM, flat on my back, snow already tricking down my neck, camera suspending in my outstretched hand trying to keep it out the snow… “Gotcha” he cried, “You’ve been stalked by Ethan” as he let out a wail of excitement and shoveled some more snow on my confused face. “I saw you heading into the woods on my way back from class so I grabbed my boats and have been tracking you for the past 45 minutes!”

“Shit” I mumbled somewhat defiantly.

“Yep, you’d be dead right now if you were pray or something…not that I eat meat, but you get the point…first class stalking!”

Coming to grips with my humiliation of being so easily followed and so incredibly unobservant I shifted the conversation to the brilliance of the forest and off together we went deeper into the woods. The favor was to be returned nearly two years later on a damp rainy fall day in Upper Peninsula Michigan, when my “Gotcha” scream followed with Ethan tumbling into a pile of wet leaves and both of us covered in rain and mud. We could have been five years old at the time, it would have made more sense the way we were acting, but we were in our early 20s and just trying to enjoy what ever moment we were given…and at that moment we were succeeding.

Ethan, I believe, is now hiking and tracking with his wife somewhere on the Appalachian Trail, and I am walking through a forest in central Sweden, a world away from our first adventure nearly 10 years ago. But as I look up at an old tree, one that would make for a good climb and an even better view for tracking, I can’t help but think of my friend….feelings of loss as our lives move in different directions, yet mixed with thankfulness knowing that we made the most of our time together. It’s ok through, know I will see Ethan again, and with that I begin climbing the tree, making sure my trekking skills are still at the top of their game.