Coming Back

I've never surfed a flash flood with a bee hive humming in my skull, but I would imagine it feels something like this. I rolled onto campus on Sunday as tentative as a school girl with her braces just off, and was immediately struck by how, well, full this campus now feels. There are thirty-two students, thirteen of whom now shuffle restively under my scrawny but determined wing. I don't know who they were when they showed up here, but after ten days of integrity boot camp, they are riding high on low-grade anxiety and their own latent potential. They seem set on no less than utter transformation (though transcendence would not be taken amiss), and I have no doubt that India is up to the task, but are they? Am I?

The reality of my return to India descended into the gut realm yesterday as we went through the itinerary with the group and traced our journey on a map with pushpins and yellow yarn. Oh, yes, the heat. The vertiginous taxi rides. The daunting chasms of miscommunication and the feeling on some days that the entirety of India's inexorable weight is balanced on top of my of my chest like a circus elephant on a golf ball. It's all coming back to me.

Blind Date

My palms are preemptively moist, and I can feel inane stream-of-consciouness chatter welling up in my throat. The first date jitters have me firmly in their sweaty grasp. What will I wear? (probably one of the two t- shirt/ drawstring pant options I've had in rotation for the last ten days). What will I say? (probably something meandering and vaguely alarming despite my attempts to convey competence and ease). I meet my new crop of students tomorrow, and I'm as nervous as Richard Simmons in a doughnut shop.

Based on prior experience, and for my own sanity, I am letting go of any expectation that they will find me:
cool
appealing to spend time with
fair and balanced
a snappy dresser

Spending time with the under-four crowd has me re-evaluating what I can reasonably expect from my more seasoned charges-to-be, including that they will probably not:

pee on me (though they may projectile vomit on my flip flops)
expect me to cut their food into bite-sized morsels
require me to wipe their "boogies"
behaviorally implode if they skip nap time
demand endless encores of my critically acclaimed finger puppet
show (Mr. Corncob Sings the Blues)

This is lulling me into an undoubtedly false sense that the upcoming semester will feel like an interlude at Canyon Ranch in comparison to the demanding vigilance of tiny tot stewardship. Apparently, my memory has been adversely affected by all of the goo goo talk and slobbery kisses (I will miss these, but may jump into the Ganga if they become a feature of the next 10 weeks). It's hard to describe the awkward gravity of meeting the collection of people who will become your life's next "Big Lesson". I almost want to say "Hi. Thanks in advance for helping me be a better person- in case I forget to mention it when I feel like duct-taping your mouth shut and lashing you to the top of a bus. You're a gem." Here goes...