Ladies and gentlemen, I present you with my latest and greatest waste of cyberspace.
I’ve always been a journal-hopper. It’s difficult to stay in the same one; I always run across one with a lovelier leather smell than my current notebook. Or I fluctuate between blank and lined pages. The blanks, I feel, encourage doodling. But I loathe my crooked handwriting flying up and down, this way and that. And yet all those straight lines totally stunt my creativity. I hate drawing over and around and through them. It seems this inability to commit has followed me into blog world.
But then again, why not? Everything else is new; why not change the blog too?
I’ve got no great segue into this one … being home is one of the stranger experiences of my short little life.
It’s been 4 days since I landed back in the US and I’ve spent most of them in my room or going for walks.
Many people were kind enough to guide me through the leaving, the arriving, the settling in, the staying alive, the winding down, and the leaving processes. I felt adequately prepared to face the beast of culture shock, which never seemed to rear its head. I paid attention when told not to step on manhole covers and managed to avoid being hit by a tram. Saying goodbye to new-but-dear friends was especially sad, but I had time in Turkey to look forward to. A lot of hand-holding and helpful advice went into all those mini-seasons. Nobody’s ever called me smooth but I think most everything turned out in the right direction.
But now … oh, now. It feels like the windshield’s iced over, the radio’s dead, and I’m running out of beef jerky. Don’t get me wrong – I’m thrilled to see my parents, siblings, friends, etc. It’s the thought that life simply isn’t as ridiculously exciting in my lovely little town of 1000. It’s the thought of not riding public transportation, eavesdropping on conversations and getting in fights with the conductress. It’s the thought of going to Walmart instead of the central market; what do you mean, set prices? No haggling?
My first morning at home, over a bowl of cereal, I told my mother (very solemnly, mind you), “Um, mom? I think I’m going to cry a lot.” She, in her infinite wisdom, smiled and said, “that’s fine.”
In a week, I suspect I’ll read this and sigh: “What a drama queen I’ve become.” But for now, it feels nice and accurate; the hours I spent staring down my suitcase, knowing that if I unpacked it meant I was here for good. In Russia, there was the anticipation I felt nearly every morning, the thought of another day stuffed with opportunities to be intrepid … Can I do that here too?
“Remember that these things are mysteries and that if they were such that we could understand them, they wouldn’t be worth understanding.”
- Flannery O’Connor
