One Week Left

The problem with reading narration is you begin to narrate your whole life. I read the entirety of New Yorker magazine today and then went on a walk and that was a big mistake; the running commentary in my head couldn’t have been restful.

Lately I’ve been feeling strangely restless, as if a strong current ran beneath a serene surface. It only comes out when I’m trying to do Do-in or yoga or go on walks and then suddenly I feel as if I can’t stay still long enough to finish the pose or center myself enough to be where I am. I am caught in a kind of limbo; Claire says that when you have decided to leave and you don’t leave you’re caught in a place like that and she may be right.

My restlessness leads me to try to find things to do. I am cooking almost everyday now, all by myself, which is odd since I am not convinced of my cooking skills. And yet I have not been too big of a failure (yet). Cooking for so few (twelve or so, I guess) takes a surprisingly quick amount of time.

I wake in the morning and do my body rub, do do-in, a little bit of yoga, meditate as best as I can, and then cast about for some occupation. I play the ukulele a little, make myself some umeshobancha, putter around my corner, browse the internet; I’ve been applying for jobs online a little, have been doing some other business-y things.

I’m trying to enjoy everything; the wide airy spaces of the longhouse, the size and comfort of the kitchen, the beauty of the landscape, like trying to capture the feeling of being here and putting it in a bottle so I’ll be able to remember it and return to it when I miss it.

The shame of this life is that you will never have everything you love, and so there will be choices. I can have this trip or I can have Ionia. I can have the people here or I can have Alex and Mirra. I can have safety and comfort or I can have adventure. I am not confused; I am not indecisive. But I do grieve, just a little.

One week left and it is too much time and not enough time somehow, all at once.

-Gwendolyn

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