I could not wait to get out of Istanbul.
Yeah, I know. I’ve gone on and on about how magical it is. But—as so many people warned me—the smog, the heat, the chaos, the lack of green space, the lack of personal space: they add up real fast. I found myself staying in a lot, ordering food with the poet and laying low, which seems a ridiculous way to spend your life in one of the biggest and most lively cities in the world.
So I came to Fethiye for a while.
I’m by the sea now, with air conditioning inside and fresh, breathable air outside. A full orchestra of crickets sings Django and me to sleep at night, from the steep incline of pine forest behind my bedroom. The fruits and vegetables taste like heaven.
So, naturally, when the poet and I Facetimed after a couple of days, I started naming off what was wrong.
Sure, I told him, Fethiye is lovely, but it’s still where people come to escape reality. And I’m wondering how I can have a life that’s more connected to the land. And also I want to find more spiritual community… but the rent prices are so expensive everywhere in Turkey… and, and, and.
He listened quietly. When I finished, he said,
“Don’t take this the wrong way, but what about all the good things?”
I sighed.
Clearly, he didn’t get it. I mean, it’s not that I’m ungrateful. I appreciate what I have, it’s just that these are things that are not easy to find. I should know. I’ve been looking for them for a really, really long time.
But the poet is not one back down easily. He pointed out how I’m working on creative project right now that I have been wanting to start for over a decade. How I’m able live anywhere I want to. How I have people who love me, even though they might be spread out all over the place.
There’s more to life than stuff! I wanted to protest. It’s not that simple!
Except that, for whatever reason, on the morning of Friday, the 8th of July, it struck me: it is.
There’s a teaching in Buddhism known as “Right View”. This is where we practice seeing things as they are, rather than how we perceive them to be. As one teacher put it, “Mindfulness is what’s happening, minus your opinion.”
But “Right View” is not an accurate translation of this teaching. Rather, it’s “Whole View”. Which means that we see the things that could use some improvement, but also, with the same eyes, we see the things that are already perfect. We see that we are grieving, and angry about the state of the world. We see that we are alive and breathing. We see that we are lonely, and, if we’re lucky, that we have shelter and food to eat. We see the colour of the sky. The dog napping next to us, who one day won’t be. The people who love us. The people who don’t love us.
We see what we are scared about, and what we are maybe a little bit excited about. All of it. Together. At the same time.
I am terrible at Right View.
I’ve been in Turkey nearly 11 months now. Aside from my home country, this is the longest I’ve ever been anywhere. It is so far from perfect. There is racism and sexism and unjustness. There are so many reasons not to like it.
But there have been so many reasons not to like every place I’ve been.
There’s always somewhere on the horizon with more promise; a place where I could be a better version of myself, do more, be happier. Somewhere more beautiful, quieter, more exciting, more supportive, more exotic. I will never apologize for being a traveller, but I’m realizing that for me, travel has always contained an element of seeking a perfectionism that (…probably) doesn’t exist. A conviction that if I keep searching, keep looking towards the next thing rather than this thing, I will finally find a life without pain.
And maybe, halfway through my time on this earth (if I’m lucky), it’s time to take a look at that.
As the days have gone by here in Fethiye, I’ve gone for morning dog walks in the blazing heat, and spent a Saturday on the beach with friends. I’ve made up for lost work hours from a week of covid, and hung out with my 76-year old dad. I’ve tried to stop more often, take in the views with more grace, cuddle Django with more presence. I’ve grieved, and feared, and fretted.
None of the so-called problems have gone away. But I’m noticing that they have shrunk a little bit. I’m seeing how much easier it is to complain about life, and how appreciating things feels a little scary.
And how the more I practice this strange new way of looking at things, and the the easier it gets.
Funny, how that happens.