Its a Jungle Out There

As I step out of what is familiar and comfortable, I inhale my surroundings and discover something different and wild. The air is thick with scents partly reminiscent of a life once lived, partly of a life once desired. Roots that have long since broken through the jungle floor threaten my every step as they nourish the trunk that proclaims its presence. I could ignore it, pretend not to be curious. But my eyes would only fall prey to the obnoxious presence of those that flank it, their branches intertwined, craftily resetting the trap that once ensnared me. The jungle’s lush canopy gives the illusion of safety as I duck and dodge my way through the dangerous decadence. I swat the low-lying branches away and maneuver the terrain as a symphony produced by exotic creatures attempts to lull me into an hypnotic stupor from which I would one day awaken, re-entangled and forever trapped in a life I was not meant to live.

My new life was hard-won but I finally am free. I can walk through this modern, concrete jungle and not trip over the exposed roots of materialism and consumerism. I can pop into the city for a few hours to take care of some business and enjoy the sparkle of Cartier before me, and the glitz of Tiffany and Bvlgari on either side. They have no power to pull me in. This is someone else’s dream and I do not envy the person nor do I begrudge them their heart’s desires. A different kind of richness woos me and though I have momentarily stepped into the jungle, I shall not stumble. Its people are foreign to me. They are not the Panamanians I know. In the isolated jungle known as the capital city, the complexions are fair and faces are framed by hair created by God but recreated by man. Pouty lips, smoothed out foreheads, and surprised eyes. They buy chakras and naguas without every hearing a greeting in the native Ngöbere language. They admire the intricately handmade mola though they have never allowed their eyes to rest on the proud chiseled features of the Kuna woman who made it. To them, the concrete jungle is safe. To me, it is cold and it unenticing. For now, I am blessed to call Panama my home. Not the manufactured Panama, but the one where kids wear uniforms to school even if they don’t have socks and shoes, where styrofoam is a building material, where rubbing alcohol cures everything, and where there is nothing on your plate that cannot be eaten with either a spoon or your fingers.

In just thirteen months, I will leave this place but this place will not leave me. It's exquisite threads shall remain woven into the fabric that is my being and its jewels shall sparkle through the windows of my soul. I will be beckoned, not by the concrete jungle, but by the wildness of yet another destination unknown, by the civility of a people unexposed. I will again be homesick for a place I have yet to go. And I will find comfort and connection in the eyes of a people who are very different from me though they too were made in the image and likeness of the same God who designed this journey just for me and who might have a similar path laid out for you. It is time to break the spell of the concrete jungle. Untangle yourself from its deceptive decadence and join me as we fix our eyes on a fabulous future.

Grace and peace,

Anita