Tammy Saris Dead
Abdul Soumphonphakdy
For the most part, it worked. I'd grown up thinking I was shy, but I talked to strangers every day while I traveled. I'd been convinced that I was afraid to be alone, but I relished solitude in my gypsy life and in the silence of the monastery. Each place and experience forced me to try new ways of thinking and dealing with the world, to become someone who could exist in that environment, and amazingly, I did. I found new words for myself, and scrubbed old ones off like dead skin.
That was six months ago. I'm now living in a small city and working in elementary schools. I like what I do, and even more, I like coming home. My walls are draped with saris I got in India, and my shelves burst with pictures and tokens from all the places I've been. The heart of my bedroom is an altar mirroring the one I sat in front of at the monastery, a small golden Buddha in the center. Looking around my apartment, I see all the things I've tried, and I know I couldn't have gotten here any other way. It was only through losing what I knew about myself that I found myself, only by going forth into homelessness that I found home.