Finding Contrasts within Periwinkle Walls
Just a week ago, I arrived at my new house in the town of Kernville in Johnstown Pennsylvania. Let me show it now to you too. It's periwinkle blue, three stories tall. Surrounding it are the cracked pavement, weedy grass and similarly old houses that mark a run down neighborhood. You can hear the whir of cars on the big road that winds along the other side of the river. There's a dog barking up the street. But the house stands out a bit from the others. There are crosses in the windows and Swiss chard ready for harvest in the flower beds. The periwinkle blue walls and white doors almost look kind.
Look inside, there's a brown toned sitting room not meant to ever match, a cluttered kitchen and dining room and a flight of stairs leading to three brightly colored rooms and uneven floors.
Meet my new family, Leah and Krista, my kind and exuberant leaders, Eva who is from Germany and often fills the house with piano playing, Abby with her quiet practicality, Evan whose bad humor and thoughtfulness keep all moods light, and Jonathan from Germany with his quick, playful sarcasm.
(Below: (Top, left to right) Me, Abby, Krista, Leah. (Bottom, left to right) Jonathan, Evan, Eva)
Everything is new.
Every day brings new people to introduce myself to "Hi, I'm Erin, I'm from Harrisonburg Virginia . I'm gonna be working at the Hollingsworth Farm and New Day. And you are?" (here most of the Mennonites have some connection to a nephew or daughter who went to EMU and lives there now) Everyday there's somewhere new to go either downtown, a friend's house in another town, the store, the Quemahoning lake to canoe, the local ice cream place with massive servings that the Germans can't get over, or church all on winding roads I haven't known since growing up. I'm continually asked to do more things I wouldn't be comfortable doing, talking to strangers, speaking in front of groups, integrating into a new life style, work alongside people I've never met before, or dance along. And with all this new, there are so many ideas to discuss every night late in the hangout room as I learn to accept difference.
Newness I've found makes one see things in an unusual clarity. Even within the week I've lost the eyes to notice the disarray in the corners of the house or the ugliness of the cement-embanked rivers. Those things just are now, this place is becoming familiar. Still, the sharp edges of Johnstown have yet to wear off, and they are constantly poking at me; I am not comfortable. While I'm seeing everything before me with such vivid contrast to my home, this place with all the new makes me see myself again as well.
We have all brought pieces of our old lives that make us who we think we are. Evan won't ever stop talking about his band days; Leah and Krista have their childhoods at Laurelville camp and years at Hesston; Jonathan and Eva remember Germany, and Abby her home church community. Between all of us, we have this week alone in common, and how difficult it is to understand someone whose life is so unfamiliar to you. And here I am, the only one who can understand all my own jokes and memories in full. I'm finding, as most graduates must be at this time, that my past is nearly irrelevant to my new family. Yes though my past informs my beliefs and identity, it's so unconnected to this new place. What pieces of myself will I find important or surprisingly relevant here (as singing, baking, journalling and gardening have already become)? And even more pressingly important, what pieces will I add from here?
Another revelation that many graduates must share with me is the realization that the self is indeed a fluid concept. I can be anyone I want to here, learn anything, structure my time doing anything within this excitingly fresh city. I'm already looking at taking yoga classes from a church friend, learning new bread recipes, picking up guitar again, creating a blog (please observe my good work), and learning some German from my housemates. In reality, I've been this free all my life with the ability to innovate and choose who I become, and though I've always had awareness of this, the choice is so exposed to me in this moment. Now that I've been released from the bonds that I'd grown comfortable in in the EMHS community, how much more depth will I achieve? I might liken it to the transplanting of a comfortably root-bound plant, form fitted to its old vessel now placed in newer, perhaps richer soil. The old roots can still draw from the soil caught in the root ball though some will inevitably be lost, but now new roots can push out into the new medium which though it might take energy now, will increase the plant's strength in the years to come.
(Below: a view of Johnstown)
These ideas among many others have been running through my mind as I look around at all the sharp contrasts, the rearing mountains surrounding the valley, the astounding hospitality of our new church family, the kind faces all around, and the periwinkle walls. My year of service has just begun, soon the glaring newness will fade but while it lasts I will question, To what place have I come to? What place have I left? Who are these people who I am learning to know? And, Who will I choose to be in this place yet from another?
Look inside, there's a brown toned sitting room not meant to ever match, a cluttered kitchen and dining room and a flight of stairs leading to three brightly colored rooms and uneven floors.
Meet my new family, Leah and Krista, my kind and exuberant leaders, Eva who is from Germany and often fills the house with piano playing, Abby with her quiet practicality, Evan whose bad humor and thoughtfulness keep all moods light, and Jonathan from Germany with his quick, playful sarcasm.
(Below: (Top, left to right) Me, Abby, Krista, Leah. (Bottom, left to right) Jonathan, Evan, Eva)
Everything is new.
Every day brings new people to introduce myself to "Hi, I'm Erin, I'm from Harrisonburg Virginia . I'm gonna be working at the Hollingsworth Farm and New Day. And you are?" (here most of the Mennonites have some connection to a nephew or daughter who went to EMU and lives there now) Everyday there's somewhere new to go either downtown, a friend's house in another town, the store, the Quemahoning lake to canoe, the local ice cream place with massive servings that the Germans can't get over, or church all on winding roads I haven't known since growing up. I'm continually asked to do more things I wouldn't be comfortable doing, talking to strangers, speaking in front of groups, integrating into a new life style, work alongside people I've never met before, or dance along. And with all this new, there are so many ideas to discuss every night late in the hangout room as I learn to accept difference.
Newness I've found makes one see things in an unusual clarity. Even within the week I've lost the eyes to notice the disarray in the corners of the house or the ugliness of the cement-embanked rivers. Those things just are now, this place is becoming familiar. Still, the sharp edges of Johnstown have yet to wear off, and they are constantly poking at me; I am not comfortable. While I'm seeing everything before me with such vivid contrast to my home, this place with all the new makes me see myself again as well.
We have all brought pieces of our old lives that make us who we think we are. Evan won't ever stop talking about his band days; Leah and Krista have their childhoods at Laurelville camp and years at Hesston; Jonathan and Eva remember Germany, and Abby her home church community. Between all of us, we have this week alone in common, and how difficult it is to understand someone whose life is so unfamiliar to you. And here I am, the only one who can understand all my own jokes and memories in full. I'm finding, as most graduates must be at this time, that my past is nearly irrelevant to my new family. Yes though my past informs my beliefs and identity, it's so unconnected to this new place. What pieces of myself will I find important or surprisingly relevant here (as singing, baking, journalling and gardening have already become)? And even more pressingly important, what pieces will I add from here?
Another revelation that many graduates must share with me is the realization that the self is indeed a fluid concept. I can be anyone I want to here, learn anything, structure my time doing anything within this excitingly fresh city. I'm already looking at taking yoga classes from a church friend, learning new bread recipes, picking up guitar again, creating a blog (please observe my good work), and learning some German from my housemates. In reality, I've been this free all my life with the ability to innovate and choose who I become, and though I've always had awareness of this, the choice is so exposed to me in this moment. Now that I've been released from the bonds that I'd grown comfortable in in the EMHS community, how much more depth will I achieve? I might liken it to the transplanting of a comfortably root-bound plant, form fitted to its old vessel now placed in newer, perhaps richer soil. The old roots can still draw from the soil caught in the root ball though some will inevitably be lost, but now new roots can push out into the new medium which though it might take energy now, will increase the plant's strength in the years to come.
(Below: a view of Johnstown)
These ideas among many others have been running through my mind as I look around at all the sharp contrasts, the rearing mountains surrounding the valley, the astounding hospitality of our new church family, the kind faces all around, and the periwinkle walls. My year of service has just begun, soon the glaring newness will fade but while it lasts I will question, To what place have I come to? What place have I left? Who are these people who I am learning to know? And, Who will I choose to be in this place yet from another?
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