Dear Friends,
I am not sleeping. I should be sleeping. I am not sleeping.
So. I’m employing my mother’s sunny optimism and calling this period of not
sleeping, “extra hours.” Since I’ve never had insomnia before, this is new for
me, but I guess that means extra time to write. I don’t know if I’ll make any
sense or write fluently because sleep deprivation. Please forgive me.
Lately I’ve been preparing to leave London and the people
I’ve known, and as I wrap up loose ends and say my goodbyes, I think of how I
came here three months ago, how I’ve missed home, how I became attached to this
city, and how I forgot to miss home at all, and how it doesn’t feel comfortable
to leave anymore. And the thought that in three months I haven’t been home, or
slept in my bed, or pet my dog, or hugged my brother, or scrubbed four toilets
in one day, or played with children is rather surreal. Still more surreal is
the thought that come Monday, I will wake up, sling a backpack over my
shoulders, and head off to that very place 4,685 miles away that I call home,
arriving there within a day, leaving this whole experience behind. It’s a very
loaded idea to consider. At times I look backward and think of all the people I
may or may not see again on this earth. I remember the people I have gotten to
know for a short while, and learned to love. And I smile, because you guys are
golden. Whether I spoke to you once, or regularly, your openness made my stay
here worthwhile. Your warmth was so welcoming. And as long as I have a home, so
do you. I bid you folks well. May your lives be full of good things, rich in a
way that makes you look back and say, “Yes, I lived, and it was beautiful.”
At other times I look forward and think of home. I imagine
the pure, crisp air that will fill my lungs as I step off the plane. I think of
the plains that stretch as far as the eye can see, spread with dry brush and
layered with icy snow, glistering in the sunlight, crunching under the tread of
creatures great and small. I think of the vast expanse of sky that displays the
mighty hand of God as it touches the horizon in azure blue, clear as day. I
think of the sun that shines most of the year, blinding people as they squint,
but still manages to warm the skin of anyone who turns their face toward it
even in subzero temperatures. I envision turning to the west and seeing the
grandeur of the Rocky Mountains, snowcapped and gargantuan, rugged and purple
in the distance. I think about baby Indigo who I haven’t yet held. I think
about the kids, who I haven’t carried, or tackled, or hugged, or kissed, or
beaten with pillows, or taught, or thrown around in far too long. I itch to
start working morning to night again, taking six classes and juggling odd jobs.
I picture hopping into a car and driving fast on I-25 south, past the bend in
the road towards Castle Rock, where the highway turns down the pine-laden hill
and reveals the beauty of the plain, dotted with sage and buttes. I think about
turning out of my neighborhood and running through the state park, spotting
deer and being stalked by coyotes, tramping through beaver ponds and avoiding
snakes. I think about my family. I think about my friends. I think about the
music. I think about my bedroom and how I can see the foliage of four houses
blanketed in snow from my window. I think about the quiet. And in the moment
when I think these things, it’s easier to return home.
