A Picture in 1000 Words (January)

I love this picture, and it's not often that I love pictures of myself. Usually, I can't see past the way my hair looks dry, the absolute catastrophe that is my droopier eye, or the memory of how cold I was that day. This picture is different. Looking at it reminds me of who I am when I'm at my best, doing exactly what I want to be doing, and letting myself enjoy that. 

I'm excited in this picture, but I can also see and remember that I was firmly there, in that moment. Even you can probably tell that I was genuinely happy, and I wasn't putting on a smile for the camera. The camera merely captured what was already happening. I look at it now, and the two words that come to mind are settled and relaxed. 

Maybe you have a lot of pictures of moments like this one–printed or in your memory–where you see who you are and don't cringe. Good for you if the answer is yes. Me, not so much. I'm an intensely critical person, and that critical eye looks inward as often as it does outward. I wouldn't classify myself as self-loathing, but it is rare for me to get something I want and allow myself to savor it without finding something to pick at. 

Michael took this photo of me one year ago, on the final evening of our trip to southern India. We're in Mumbai, at a Gujarati restaurant. I'm about to eat way more food than I should because I am a rule follower, and I took the message on the banner behind me seriously. The restaurant, Shree Thaker Bhojanalay, captured my heart from the busy market street one story down from its entrance. 

First off, it has been around forever, and by forever, I mean since 1945. There is only one thing on the menu, unlimited thali, and, it's vegetarian! Thali is my favorite kind of meal. It is composed of many small dishes, rice or flatbread, and it's designed to offer all six flavors–sweet, salt, bitter, sour, astringent and spicy–on one plate. Unlimited is what it sounds like, you can continue eating more of anything and everything until you're full. Servers continually wander through the dining room, ladles, tongs, and serving spoons at the ready. 

I loved everything about it, the warren-like maze of identically set rooms, the pink tables, and the absence of choices to be made. Sitting there in anticipation, I was contented. And this was before I understood the parade of gustatory delights I was about to experience–seriously, watch this 10+ minute video about it. Before I encountered our server, who, with a gentle persistence that comes from pride, helped us compose the most pleasing bites from the textures and flavors in front of us. The meal and the experience were nothing short of miraculous.

I dreamed of traveling in India for nearly twenty years before taking this trip. To my 25-year-old mind, India looked almost otherworldly, so wildly different than where I was from. It seemed bright, colorful, chaotic, rustic, and bursting with humanity. Everyone I knew who had been was adventurous and curious and willing to wander beyond their comfort zone. I wanted to be that kind of person, one that is sturdy enough to stomach discomfort and difference, and tender enough to be transformed by them. 

People who went to India talked about their experience in that beautiful and irritating way that people who travel to faraway places do. They said things like, "India will change you." I believed them; that was the draw. It's a bit sad to think that at the age of 25 I was already sure that there was a better kind of person to be than the one that I was. Honestly, I'm not sure that it's an idea I've fully outgrown.

While waiting to board the plane to Mumbai, I had a brief chat with one of my dearest friends. Out of curiosity, she asked me why I'd always wanted to visit India. I stated the obvious first–the food is my absolute favorite–and then I told her about the 25-year-old dream that it would change me, open me up to something. Less enthusiastically, I admitted that standing at the airport that day, I was more afraid that it wouldn't, afraid I'd come back exactly the same. She "aaahed" with understanding. 

She offered that it might change me, but that things like that often take time to reveal themselves, to unfold in our lives, or for us to determine how to integrate the changes. While I found her optimism encouraging, our parting chat illuminated something for me. It allowed me to see that my imaginings about travel are different from my life at home beyond the backdrop and the activities. When I picture myself in another place, I look freer, relaxed and happy, energetic and curious. I appear at home in the world, and–almost more importantly–at home in myself. 

In other words, I am changed. 

Change your surroundings, and you will change too. I know that's not true. As Anne Lamott says, "Peace of mind is an inside job, unrelated to fame, fortune, or whether your partner loves you." I'd add stamps in your passport, and your haircut to that list, but otherwise, it's perfect. The thing about this picture is that I can see that it's me in a moment where I'm comfortable–maybe even happy about–being me. That, more than the fact that I'm sitting in Mumbai, at a pink table, about to eat one of the best meals of my life, at the end of a three-week adventure with one of my favorite people, is what I love about it.

Maybe this kind of ease happens more often than I realize. It could happen at the grocery store, at my desk, or in front of the television, I just don't have the pictures to prove it. So I'll have to keep traveling if I want to see myself transform into the person I already am.