Elizabeth Bishop once wrote that, “the art of losing isn’t hard to master.” As far as objects go, she was absolutely right. I used to lose my cell-phone about as often as the average person goes to the bathroom.
But while Bishop was right about objects, she was wrong about people. Losing yourself is a skill that requires time, practice, and patience. I don’t mean physically being lost, because I’ve found that even those who know their alphabet well can easily find themselves lost in downtown D.C. Really losing yourself, though, is a whole other process entirely. Since I arrived at Georgetown, I‘ve gone through a period of allowing myself to be open and vulnerable to being lost. The beginning of the school year brought along with it the beginning of Ramadan, and so my life was shifting, adapting, and adjusting in more than one way.
But even in a moment when you must let go of everything else, it’s a nice, grounding feeling to know you can still hold on to your phone. And when that little chunk of plastic and metal stores your only portal to family and friends at home, and your address book full of the names and numbers of all your potential new college friends (and thus your future social life), it becomes your lifeline.
This past month, my phone went one step further and served as my trusty alarm clock as well. It provided a jarring, whining five a.m. wake-up call. This past month was the month of Ramadan, and every morning, just before the sun rose, my phone and I shared a pre-dawn meal. It’s not quite the same as sharing your pre-dawn meal with your parents and siblings. The automated, unrelenting sound of an alarm clock is nothing near the gentle touch and voice of your mother by your bedside. My phone and I did not go for walks outside my dorm after having eaten, or watch the sunrise together, as my mother and I often did outside our home. As grounding as the tangibility and trustworthiness of a cell phone can be, it still leaves you somewhat alone; it’s just a phone, after all. And so, as much as I have come to appreciate it as a device, I have also understood that it can only come so far with me on this journey away from myself.
Ramadan is, in part, a month of self-exploration and reflection, but it seems to me that this year I learned more about other people than about myself. While I never took a walk outside my dorm to wait for the sun to rise, I did take many walks down the hall to my common room to grab a carton of milk (pilfered from Leo’s the night before) out of the refrigerator. I used to sleep-walk down the hall, half-blind, with a funky bed-head hair-do, hugging an oversized hoodie to my chest, and expecting to find no one else around.
But I discovered that that isn’t a fair assumption to make, especially when you’re living on the same floor as thirty other individuals. At five in the morning, I have staggered into my common room to find that I was not the only one who enjoyed a meal at such ungodly hours. On more than one occasion, I strained my eyes to discern the fuzzy forms of four or five strangers, cooking and eating in my common room. They must have expected to be able to be alone at five in the morning as well, because they appeared as scandalized by my presence as I was by theirs.
As the month went by, I began to realize that Ramadan never was about just the individual. It requires an awareness of those around you, and of how you interact with those around you. It is about individual growth via the growth and involvement of the entire community. With the help of Ramadan, I spent the month learning about a lot of other people through the Muslim Students Association, and beginning to respect and understand the importance of the community. Most of all, I began to understand that just as spiritual growth is best achieved through the support and strength of the entire community, learning to be lost cannot be done in isolation; it is best done collectively. Being lost with other people, whether they are fellow Muslims or fellow freshmen, is always better than being lost alone. It is easier to find your way out of the forest that way.
The next week, when I woke up at five and walked down the hall, I was not at all surprised to find a policeman and a member of GERMS outside my room, and a floor-mate wide awake explaining that a boy perhaps, possibly, probably passed out in her bathroom. One can find community in the most unexpected places, times, and disguises.
