last spring
March 14, 2015
Tomorrow I leave for Seattle. I leave home for home--a phrase I've been saying for years now. As ever, I leave asking myself if this is where I belong and if I should live here and how I can make this place a part of my life. I know, though, my place for the next few weeks. Tomorrow, here in France. A few more bike rides through the valley. A few more runs to the store for chocolate. A few more evenings at the table in a red kitchen. Next week I fly home. I will find my friends and loved ones. This spring I will go to my classes, early in the morning, and come home to garden and hike the mountains and eat coconut popcorn and kombucha with my friends. I will buy myself tulips and leave my window wide open. In the summertime some of my favorite French people, my brothers, little sister, and best friends, will come and we will make ourselves known to the American west. And in the fall, when the leaves that have yet to grow turn brown and pass out of this world, I will pack my things and go to college. One day, maybe I can come back home, and build my life here. Even now, I can see the idea of it: a crumbling stone farmhouse built back up with eager, worn hands, with a garden below and behind and full of people running, joyful and barefoot. It is a dream. A dream I will hold to, but not let consume me as I return to another place I hold dear. I come back to this, though; Be Still. Tomorrow will come and yesterday will pass away, but today is here.
Tomorrow I leave for Seattle. I leave home for home--a phrase I've been saying for years now. As ever, I leave asking myself if this is where I belong and if I should live here and how I can make this place a part of my life. I know, though, my place for the next few weeks. Tomorrow, here in France. A few more bike rides through the valley. A few more runs to the store for chocolate. A few more evenings at the table in a red kitchen. Next week I fly home. I will find my friends and loved ones. This spring I will go to my classes, early in the morning, and come home to garden and hike the mountains and eat coconut popcorn and kombucha with my friends. I will buy myself tulips and leave my window wide open. In the summertime some of my favorite French people, my brothers, little sister, and best friends, will come and we will make ourselves known to the American west. And in the fall, when the leaves that have yet to grow turn brown and pass out of this world, I will pack my things and go to college. One day, maybe I can come back home, and build my life here. Even now, I can see the idea of it: a crumbling stone farmhouse built back up with eager, worn hands, with a garden below and behind and full of people running, joyful and barefoot. It is a dream. A dream I will hold to, but not let consume me as I return to another place I hold dear. I come back to this, though; Be Still. Tomorrow will come and yesterday will pass away, but today is here.
Comments
Post a Comment