there and back again

 

Tonight, there are no lightning bugs. I don’t sense the heavy, relentless warmth that I’m used to. Instead, I can hear the poplar leaves clapping softly outside my window and smell the cool, dewy summer night breeze. The moon is full and its light causes a soft glow on the snowfields of Mt. Adams. I’m back again—after a full eleven months away, save the three weeks I spent here at Christmas.

I’m back again, and it’s terrifying, really. For the first time in my entire life, the foreseeable future is utterly…unforeseeable. I don’t know what I’ll be doing tomorrow, let alone in the coming months and years. There is no one telling me what time to be at class or when to attend staff training. There is no certificate, no recognition, no paycheck to mark the end of one project and the beginning of another. In a way, I feel like I’m falling. I’ve leapt off the cliff and am suspended in midair, waiting to meet the ground… but I’m not really even sure what that means.

I want structure and control, and can sense myself trying to create them. Trying to keep busy with unpacking and reorganizing, writing to-do lists and day schedules. Trying to drown out the uncertainty with music and conversation. Trying not to think.

I’ve gone far away to a place of strangers. I’ve battled two solid months of homesickness. I’ve learned to make friends and build relationships. I’ve learned to let those friends go and put effort into staying in touch. I’ve learned to start over in a new place, to make new friends, and eventually to let those friends go as well.

I’ve learned how to go. Now I just need to learn how to come back.