Please Excuse My Lack of Perspective

I haven’t been very disciplined in writing. Not because life isn’t eternally entertaining, but because these days it is more Lifetime movie than ABC Family. My attitude lately has far from represented the lighthearted sarcastic banter I’d like you to think of concerning my literary prowess. I refuse to make you suffer through my whining. So my husband gets to. Basically, adjusting is hard. And I thought I’d be much better at it. The idea that this adjustment doesn’t have an end date makes it painful to accept.  

In the past six months I haven’t once tried to pretend that I’ve settled in. A nameless but very distinct discomfort aches on my chest always. Behind the laughter and hospitality of new friends exists a quiet, infinite yearning for the old, the familiar. The missing never ends, and even with new journeys and new destinations, the desire to ease back into an effortless flow is intoxicating. It’s so very difficult to feel like, to act like “myself” among places and faces that have never been a part of me.

 But to run would be easy. And unfair to my husband, who has worked tirelessly to provide us with this adventure. So I am committed. Still sad sometimes, or lots of times. Still crafting the dream of returning to street names I’ve known since childhood. But for now, I’m staying. I’m trusting in the process. I’m looking for the beauty in the scary steps and hopeful for the picture they will soon create, one that rests on years of seeing around the corner and thrives on these times of necessary uncertainty.

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And let’s be honest, there are exciting things about change. Like when you get to move out of your dorm of an apartment into a charming, three bedroom house with hardwood floors and a giant backyard. That’s kind of awesome. And buying your first real, grown up sofa. That’s fun, too. Especially when it’s red. It’s also a thrill to explore the river that surrounds your city. But only if you’re doing it on a jet ski.