си: for myself

In the Bulgarian language “ходя” means I walk. But “ходя си” means I walk for myself. It’s not simply walking anymore. In Bulgarian I can cook, clean, eat, study, watch TV, etc for myself. All I have to do is add “си”(see). With just two letters, daily tasks become purposeful acts of self care.

“аз си пиша” -> “I write for myself”

This phrase has never been more accurate. My family is obviously a fan of writing and I’m convinced this whole blogging thing is contagious. But blogging is a little for me and a little for other people (@mom). When I say “аз си пиша” I think of my journal. That is just for me, and here in Bulgaria it has been a necessary source of motivation.

Journaling doesn’t motivate me to do the normal motivation-required tasks like study, clean, workout, etc. Instead, journaling motivates me to be grateful. Keeping a bullet-pointed list of the “highlights of my day” is the necessary push I need to find those moments of joy in even the most stressful times abroad.

These highlights are often tiny bits of seemingly huge days; they are those little burrs that get stuck to your clothes as you walk near a burr-filled plant. Oftentimes you don’t realize which little moment is going to stick with you unless you look back to see what you are still carrying. It’s those moments, those surprisingly sticky burrs, that I find myself writing in my journal. One highlight every day has already left me with over 50 bits and pieces of joy on exchange. And a list of 50 little joys feels huge.

After the hardest day on exchange so far I went for a sunset bike ride with my host brother. And when we paused to listen to a practiced musician’s beautiful rendition of “Let Her Go” with the sun setting over Vitosha Mountain, I felt a little magic in the air. But as I journaled that night I realized that the burr that clung to me was not the sunset or the fountain or the mountain or even the music. It was my 14 year old host brother’s need to tip the musician. He immediately scrambled off of his bike and pulled out a few стотинки to show his appreciation for the music. Even after a difficult day, I couldn’t help but crack a smile at that demonstration of pure gratitude.

If I hadn’t stopped that night to really think about the highlight of my day, to reach behind me and pluck off that particular burr, it might have slipped away. I could have written a description with some imagery for the sunset or a metaphor for the mountain in the background. The obvious beauty in that moment would have been a satisfactory description of my evening for anyone to read. But that description wouldn’t have been an authentic explanation for why I felt magic in the air. And in my journal, I write for myself. Aз си пиша.