It feels weird to be back. I didn’t so much leave my heart in San Francisco, as I left little bits and pieces of me everywhere, scattered like in a Tibetan sky burial. It has taken me days to convince my body that it is the time I tell it. But you know bodies, they have a will of their own. Mine has found a comfort zone in a time that is decidely not Greenwich. As a result I’ve spent way too many early morning hours contemplating my growing sense of wanderlust.
Seven years in England and I’ve not really missed the US, well, not since that first difficult year when I did little else but sit around and watch the rain. Now, I find myself seriously contemplating whether I’m ready to commit to a new home. I don’t feel particularly anxious, which is always a good sign. I am hopeful and excited and a little dizzy with anticipation.
As for missing people/places, for me the hardest thing about uprooting is the total removal of possibilities. Usually when I am finished with something, I am done. As in a bad relationship, one’s current place of residence can sometimes feel like a big dead weight. Every other place else automatically seems more wonderful and magical in comparison.
So how to tell if a love affair with a city is truly over? I’m trying hard not to dwell on that. Time for a map, a blindfold and a sense of humour.
Listening to: The Sound of Failure/Is it always this dark by the Flaming Lips.