We’ve been home, as in back in Michigan, now for a little over a week. I know the previous posts would have you thinking we are only almost to our destination of OTHER but that’s because I’ve been storing up all these stories and feelings while still trying to keep a log of this trip so we’ll never forget. I brought with me 5 blank journals because I was going to write everything down. I was going to decompress and be ridiculous and think up and think through and journal my dreams and have amazing alone time and guess what? I journaled one time. I took some notes and I journaled one time and those five blank journals took this trip with me just in case I couldn’t hold it in.
But instead of writing it all down to keep, I felt it instead. I didn’t save my thoughts, I spoke them. I didn’t wish my dreams into reality, I was living them.
Before we even left last June (and maybe even May) I kept worrying that by leaving for such a long period of time I would also be leaving my place in line. Like, the relationships I cherished, people I loved and did life with, that somehow by me leaving there would be this vacancy in my spot to fill and I would come back to an empty life.
None of that is or was true, obviously, nothing changed in the best way. Except for me. And us.
And I can’t come back. I haven’t figured out how to come home again.