I just realized that it has been almost exactly a year since I was medically discharged from the Peace Corps. This week, I've been celebrating my year anniversary by reading old posts and reminiscing about the good and bad times. It's hard to believe that a little over twelve months ago I was walking through ankle-deep mud (buttcock - seriously, that's the Kyrgyz word for 'mud') to get to school, bathing once a week, and using a hole in the ground. It's hard to believe that Kyrgyz was my main language of communication. It's hard to believe that I witnessed a revolution.
Sometimes I have dreams that I'm back in Kyrgyzstan. In my dreams, I'm given another chance to make it work. I reunite with my students and my host-family and, always, my friend Umut and our reunions are exciting and hope-filled. Sadly, though, even in my dreams I know that I'm dreaming and that I can't stay. In my dreams, I always wish that I could stay.
Sometimes I'm filled with regret that I couldn't stay. I miss my host-family that I never had the chance to say goodbye to since I was whisked away in the Peace Corps all-terrain vehicle to the capital city without any notice. I miss my students. I miss the other volunteers and our nights of pseudo-pizza and involved discussions on bowel-movements (VERY important to a Peace Corps volunteer). I wish that things could have been very, very different.
This has been a really good year for me and I am so happy right now. It doesn't mean, however, that I don't think about what could have been.
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