The eight hour flight back from London cannot be described with any other word than buzzing. I was determined not to be sad and spend my flight fueling my breaking heart with thoughts or sad music. Somehow I knew if I stopped for too long I would drain myself emotionally, mentally and physically, and I just wasn't ready for that. Instead I gorged myself on mindless movies, celebrity gossip and cheery music (things I normally loathe, do mind.) When I found myself watching a Will Farrell movie, I knew I had truly hit a low point in my desperation to avoid facing the truth. I was going home.
As I made my way toward U.S. Customs I broke. Feeling the early signs of a cry coming on, I headed for the handicapped bathroom where I sat on the floor of the stall and tried to collect myself.
Everything will be okay. This has been a wonderful experience. There is so much for you here in America. You are glad to be back.
It didn't really matter what I told myself, or even what I may have felt because the bitter reality that my journey is over cannot be changed. The first feeling that comes to me -- sadly -- is regret. Leaving a place and a life that I loved, yet will never be able to recapture has me feeling a tremendous sense of loss. Having felt so vibrant in London, I fear what awaits me in my little life in North Carolina. Good friends and family, is for certain, but beyond that I am not coming home to very much.
So here is where the challenge begins. I must turn myself around, grow myself more opportunities, and face new challenges. Life is not about where you are, but what you create around you.
Happiness is not an island in the rain. (Though wouldn't it be nice if it was that simple.)
22 May 2007
06 May 2007
t-shirts and memories.
I remember sitting on the floor not too long ago, resting my chin on my hands as I stared at the most enormous collection of matter known to man. A massive collage of clothing, shoes, toiletries and computer parts that I deemed necessary for survival were lumped into a pile that would make Olympic hurdlers quiver. How would I ever cram all of these things into my megar duffel bag and get it a quarter of a way around the globe? People suggested rolling my t-shirts and sweaters, vacume sealing everything in space-age looking bags and (my favorite) "just cramming things in carelessly." I eventually conceeded, packing a quarter of the things in my pile and sending the rest off to live in a stuffy storage unit in East Burlington.
My bags were tight, zipper-bulging nuggets of packing perfection. Socks were stuffed into shoes. Computer wires were wound tight. Textbooks nessled in the core of the bag to ensure a zen-like sense of balance. In short, my bag was sheer parcel bliss.
This morning, I began my journey home by packing all of my bags. With every item placed into my bag, I felt a bit of closure with leaving.
Somewhere along the way, I realized that making my return trip to the United States, I was packing a lot more--and I'm not just talking about the excess amounts of Swiss Chocolate and shoes from Chockers that I will probably fail to mention to U.S. Customs. With every item I tucked deep into my red suitcase went a memory from my time in London.
My black dress pants reminded me of my first day at my internship with the Liberal Democrats, nervous yet eager to get acclimated quickly. A battered pair of running shoes were my afternoon runs through Regents Park which often degenerated into sitting under a willow tree watching the ducks race the paddle boats. A festive tank top took me to evenings at the pub, enjoying glasses of red wine over conversations with the locals.
The list goes on and on, with practically everything I own having a story attached. Though it was sad to be packing these things, it was refreshing to realize how many experiences I will be taking back with me. I go home a different person than I was when I came. I go home having lived a different life, if only for a few months. I go home with thousands of stories, thousands of lessons learned. I go home with the weight of a thousand memories.
Now, I am glad to have gained all this, but I do have one concern. However will I fit it all into my checked luggage?
Perhaps rolling ... or vacume sealing.
My bags were tight, zipper-bulging nuggets of packing perfection. Socks were stuffed into shoes. Computer wires were wound tight. Textbooks nessled in the core of the bag to ensure a zen-like sense of balance. In short, my bag was sheer parcel bliss.
This morning, I began my journey home by packing all of my bags. With every item placed into my bag, I felt a bit of closure with leaving.
Somewhere along the way, I realized that making my return trip to the United States, I was packing a lot more--and I'm not just talking about the excess amounts of Swiss Chocolate and shoes from Chockers that I will probably fail to mention to U.S. Customs. With every item I tucked deep into my red suitcase went a memory from my time in London.
My black dress pants reminded me of my first day at my internship with the Liberal Democrats, nervous yet eager to get acclimated quickly. A battered pair of running shoes were my afternoon runs through Regents Park which often degenerated into sitting under a willow tree watching the ducks race the paddle boats. A festive tank top took me to evenings at the pub, enjoying glasses of red wine over conversations with the locals.
The list goes on and on, with practically everything I own having a story attached. Though it was sad to be packing these things, it was refreshing to realize how many experiences I will be taking back with me. I go home a different person than I was when I came. I go home having lived a different life, if only for a few months. I go home with thousands of stories, thousands of lessons learned. I go home with the weight of a thousand memories.
Now, I am glad to have gained all this, but I do have one concern. However will I fit it all into my checked luggage?
Perhaps rolling ... or vacume sealing.
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