It's been a long time

Well, I'm home, I guess.

That's never the way I expected to start this entry, which I've thought about for two or three months now. I was going to give you the typical (if there is a typical?) post-study-abroad-run-down: I'm back, I love my home, I miss England, etc., etc.

I don't think that's in the cards, here, in this post, which has taken me so long to actually put into words because I don't really have the words.

I always knew it would be hard coming home, but I guess I imagined that it would be hard in some sort of tangible way or ways: Oh, everything here is just so ugly compared to the 13th century cobblestones, or, Gosh, it's weird not having formal hall and then heading to the pub, or maybe even, Huh, home just feels downright dull after so much traveling. None of that is really true; I do miss the cobblestones and Hall and pubs, but it's a missing in the way that I can remember and smile and know I'll be back someday (high table? perhaps?). And home doesn't feel dull. It just feels...different. Being here is hard in so many intangible ways, and I think maybe that is what all those cliches and lectures about "culture shock" are all about: you are in shock, because you feel out of place, and you don't exactly know why.

The analogy I keep using, when people ask me how I feel about being home (and when I think they're not just asking to be polite), is this:

Pretend that I, Claire, am a room. A year ago, I left. While I was gone, someone, or something, came into that room and touched everything just a little. Maybe a quarter of an inch, maybe even a half an inch. If you, reader, walked into the room today, you wouldn't notice that anything was different. You'd probably sigh happily and say, "Oh, it's so good to have you home!" or "Wow, you must have some amazing stories!" But I walked into the room and screamed at the top of my lungs, "Who the HELL touched my stuff?"

That's how I feel.

It's uncomfortable, like stepping into a pair of shoes that always used to fit you, but now one of the heels wiggles a little when you walk; or sitting down in the car and finding the seat lever is stuck, so you have to drive sitting on the edge of the seat so you can reach the pedals. Okay, maybe that last one only applies to those of us who are 5'3, but you get the idea. It's strange.

Don't get me wrong--it's wonderful to see my family and friends.

And it's great to do so many Seattle-y things: the top photo is from a Shakespeare in the park performance; the bottom one from a Mariners game.

I've spent time with some old friends, and that has been wonderful, and validating, in ways I couldn't have even guessed at.

And I've also been enjoying some of my favorite places in the beautiful summer weather.

The dog park, Lake Washington at dusk.

Reading in the sunshine on Kite Hill, Magnuson Park.

All of it has been great. I've also been exercising a lot, playing with my new toy, and cooking...a lot. Some of the tastiest hits include chocolate-raspberry ice cream; kale with tofu, garlic, and lemon; and carrot salad with harissa, feta, and mint.

I guess I'm writing all of this with a dual purpose: firstly, to tell you that coming home isn't always what it has been in the past; and secondly, that that isn't necessarily a bad thing, but just takes some adjustment. I'm working on that second part. For those of you around me, thank you for understanding, and for those of you reading this, thank you for taking it as an honest post, and not a melodramatic call for sympathy after an amazing, amazing year of my life. Quite possibly the best year to date.

Maybe in another month I'll have some wisdom for you on how I've changed, because I have. But for now-- I'm back.