life

One week has passed since Big Jim and I returned from Pakistan, and two weeks since we were rescued from the mountain high in the Northwest Frontier Province. I sit in our lounge with a cup of coffee and Mr. Beebs curled up sleeping beside me, precious Boo stretched out at my feet, gently snoring. Nothing and everything has changed. Yesterday I reread the last journal entry I made before I left for Pakistan. I had been troubled by a sense that something was going to go wrong on the trip, but I was unable to discern whether I was just being agoraphobic again or whether my fears had any merit. I worried about the dogs being orphaned, about my time on earth being cut short. Before I shut down my computer that night, I sent a final e-mail to my mother with contact numbers of everyone here in Spain, "just in case." I told her everything would be fine, not to worry, but it was myself I was most trying to reassure. When we returned from Spain, our first telephone call was from our neighbor here. He told me he had had a bad feeling about my travels to Pakistan that same Friday night. He had gone as far as to dial our phone number, so that he could warn me, but then hung up before the first ring, believing I would think him mad. He asked what I would have done if he had called. I told him I would have done what I did do---despite my own intuition telling me otherwise---I would have gone to Pakistan. ************************************* I had never experienced an earthquake before in my life, and for those readers who have not, I can only tell you earthquakes are incredibly surreal. An earthquake is initially very disorienting and then terrifying, but that is not to say---should one remain conscious and uninjured---that there are not moments of excitement and, dare I say, pleasure. Do many of us not pay good money to be shaken up and thrown about, albeit under the auspices of rigorous equipment testing and safety regulatory boards, in amusement park rides? Are we not trying to recreate in ourselves the same adrenaline rush that follows something like an earthquake but in a safe environment without perilous consequence? But during an earthquake, there is an absolute loss of control of one's surroundings, everything acting as it should not. Mountains are not supposed to move; the ground is not supposed to split open; the terra is decidedly not firma. I had but a few moments to accept that should the roots of the nearby giant pines no longer be able to hold onto the craggy shifting earth, life as I knew it would change dramatically and possibly cease altogether. At some point, however, I found peace in the realization that if my time truly was going to end, I was at least going to die in one of the most beautiful places I had ever seen, that this would be the world's last gift to me. I was originally going to title this post "death", but in the end it just didn't seem right. As I put my fingers to the keyboard, I was reminded of a story Chen related to me at the reunion dinner we had one night after we all returned to Islamabad. He had spent the past few days in Balakot, reporting on the horrendous situation there. He was present when a 14-year-old girl was pulled from the rubble that had once been her school. Although several schoolmates had clung to life for awhile after the earthquake, she was now the only survivor. After five days of being trapped, not surprisingly her first request was for water. Reluctantly accepting the only beverage available, orange juice, it then dawned on her that she was surrounded by press people. She tossed the OJ aside and then begged for a mirror, horrified by the thought that she would appear in print not looking her best. Everything and nothing had changed. Hasta pronto, mylifeinspain