Four.

Despite this week being good (some days were better than “good”), for reasons I cannot put my finger on, I am glad it is over.

Maybe it was the household being down with the near-flu or that someone I love fell flat on their face (literally, on their face) not judging a curb accurately.  Maybe it is that part of me has been quietly, subconsciously, reviewing the year; worming around, trying to make sense of how things unfolded – good, not great or indifferent.  I feel stalled.  At least right now, I do.

This morning I counted aloud, on my fingers, ‘August. September, October, November, Decem… .’  Four.  Four months here.  And I really should stop berating myself for wondering when here is going to feel ‘normal’ – and embrace fully this is not just another visit.  Or, perhaps, I could chastize myself less because I’ve not found or replaced all the niches I cozied into up there; the volunteering and community stuff will evolve.  With a bit of effort, I could find a church, or a script, or a thing that fed me where I most feel lost:  in my core; I am out of touch with the magnetic north that points toward the home in my self.  There I was a friend, a daughter, a reliable, a daily mom, a far away girlfriend, a dependable worker bee.

Here?  I have no flipping clue, frankly.  On some days, it feels like I’m wearing someone else’s shoes in someone else’s story.

I miss the parenting most of all; supporting her activities and enjoyments; feeding the friendpack when they descended upon the house; nodding ‘yes’ to her hope-eyed plea to have the girls sleep over – and could I please make crepes with Nutella for breakfast?  And bacon?  And tea?

Yes, yes, yes.

I was not prepared for anything this year.  I am not prepared to live in this new place – though I packed up my life, left my job, dear friends, parents – and moved anyway.

“Make yourself at home!”  They say.

I promise I am trying.  But tonight, for whatever reason, I am questioning and second-guessing quite a lot.

So long, week.  You’ve wrung me out.

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One Comment Add yours

  1. Ava says:

    Honest and beautifully written. I have a hate/love relationship with “Home is where the heart is.” Perhaps you do as well. Being at peace isn’t easy…the great irony of our lives. But wishing it always to you. 💕

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