Identity in Movement

All shades of green out my window. I kid you not – it is a beautiful sight.

What identity will emerge from here? Place can define us if we let it. One of the most common questions upon meeting someone new is “Where are you from?” or “Where do you live?” The answer helps the stranger relate or perhaps decide what type of person you might be.

And where you are living now – why? What do you do there? Why did you choose to live there?

I am learning that transition, or movement from one place to another – unsettles the narrative I’ve grown accustomed to and forces a new presumed identity. Naturally, no one wants to fall into a box, we need to assert our unique decisions that led us here. Is the desire to be unique a form of vanity? Or is it simply wanting to be more than the Status quo?

When we first arrived my answer was always, “I live in Costa Rica, but I used to live in the Middle East.” Why the need to tell someone I used to live there? What identity was so attached to that part of my story, that even a stranger must know? Yes, I am American, but I’m not “that” type of American. Or maybe I subconsciously wanted to be known on a deeper level. Because giving a little more information begs the questions “Oh really, what were you doing there? Why did you choose to move here? What are you doing now? Do you like it?”

Boom. And the conversation flows in a comfortable manner once more. It is almost too easy.

My identity has been shaped by movement. In Jordan I learned to love the coffee, hospitality, colorful red carpets, and history. Amman is a densely populated city where living without a car became a part of who we were. Neighborhood walks and morning runs reinforced our athletic identity. And delicious dips like mutabal (eggplant) and hummus became our go to snack of choice.

I find that reflecting on our season in the Middle East helps me to embrace the bits that continue to shape who I am and who I have become. The smells, cold winter nights with gas heaters and cardamom coffee in the desert are all welcome memories.

Yet, as my feet slowly settle into the wet soil of a new place, I’m learning that the more I let go of my attachment to place, the freer I become. Conversations focus less on where I’ve been, and more on the person in front of me. Fully present.

It is a strange, natural progression. Almost without notice, the conversation of the past stops inviting itself to the party. It is satisfied with the cemented space that memory holds and allows space for the new place to take shape.

This week we have seen record levels of rainfall each afternoon, further disorienting my former desert life. We find that here, the rhythms of rural life is transforming our routines and identities. It strips away any need to please. To be busy or run like mad. The constant rainfall means bountiful fruit in all shapes and colors. We are forced to make the most of our time in simple living and to be content with this seemingly strange season of our lives.

So if time allows, and you’re in the mood for some reflection - ask yourself the question - where are you now? And how does this place shape you? I’d be curious to know the answer.