365 days ago, I was here.

That “here” is Salerno, Italy. That morning I had said goodbye to Heather in Rome – she headed back to Scotland to finish off her semester at Aberdeen and I had a day before I took the 8 hour train ride, just across the French/Italian border to Nice.

It’s more than a little weird to me that four months of my life existed almost entirely outside the realm of context of anyone who has been walking through life with me. Not to say that there are any regrets or that I have concluded solo-travel does not interest me (rather the opposite, in fact). But there is something to be said for the sharing of life with friends and family.

As I’m sure everyone experiences, there are moments when the mind wanders. When you can’t quite anchor your train of thought to the tangible reality in front of you. For me, these moments are constituted of any number of things. Thinking about what tasks I should be accomplishing. Contemplating some of life’s great mysteries (why does chicken turn white and beef turn brown? – ok, I do think deeper thoughts than that). And remembering.

Moreso than in previous years, I have noticed my thoughts not so much wandering back to my trip to Europe, but more arriving as the ghost of your favorite pet stepping out in front of your car as you speed down the freeway.

It’s rarely the monumental, that rush to a precision focus. It’s not the Eiffel Tower or the Colosseum or Westminster Abbey that I see. It’s Monoprix, the containers of shredded carrots, the aisle in the grocery store where I bought canned green beans. It’s waiting for the metro, climbing un-ending stairs to emerge finally into daylight. It’s the man who sold me sunglasses and the ricotta with shrimp that I had to de-shell. It’s gelato and walking down the street being a part of the world of Paris. It’s trying to find my host family’s house for the first time. It’s eating a sandwich at la plage (the beach).

It’s any number of mundane events that I know better than to bore you with. Or worse, make you think that I am somehow trying to flaunt that I went to Europe.

Since I shared this part of my life with so few people, it’s not like remembering a childhood toy or occasion that I can text my sister and say, “Oh! Remember when…” It’s an inside joke with myself.

I think – or maybe even know – that some people might have wanted me to share more of my experiences when I returned. But I think even now it’s not something I can go through chronologically and say I did this then this then this. Sure, with a trip to Disneyland, that works. But you can’t really summarize life that way.

I don’t think there’s any sort of neat conclusion for me to come to at the end of this. This isn’t a suggestion for you to ask into the mundane details or a closure of anything really. It’s just an observation that has been floating around, waiting to be made.

On Sunday, I lost that ring, the one on my thumb. Pretty sure it slipped off when I was throwing some boxes into a trash compactor, and even if I had noticed at the time instead of ten minutes later in Pita Pit, it still would have been irreversibly gone.

It wasn’t even aesthetically my favorite ring. I think it cost around $11, and I was waiting for the day it would be bent out of recognizable shape. The thin metal had already conformed to a shape not resembling my finger or a circle, but something closer to a square or rectangle.

But every time I looked down and saw that ring on my finger, I remembered Kenya.
Certainly not to say that I don’t think of that trip apart from a small piece of manipulated metal, but a constant, physical reminder, couldn’t help but prod the memory.
I am getting better at accepting loss. At not clinging unrealistically tight to what is transient.

Why does life persist in pouring this overbearing profundity into my lap? Perhpas it was always there and I have managed to be busy enough to ignore it.
I think I am going to skip A, B, and C and go with #3:

If I don’t write to empty my mind, I go mad.
-Lord Byron

subject: “Africa”, Toto

I have decided to buy a house.
Or rather, I have decided that buying a house would solve a dilemma or two while being a nice investment.

I love new places and travelling. However. I do not like moving and the unpleasant process of toting all my possessions here and there (granted, all of my possessions have yet to move…a significant bit of my random memories and collectibles remain at my parents’ house).

So! I have concluded that the best option is for me to purchase one of my ideal homes (yes, there are several – whether I ever inhabit any of them is yet to be determined). That way, I can just move allllll of my stuff to My House, and it’s always at My House for when I need/want it. Then, I will just pack my suitcase and go off to have some adventures. Maybe even long-term adventures. But really, the stuff I need to go about my daily life is minimal or easily purchased at the destination. I just can’t manage to throw away things that I might use down the road, or  my future children might find amusing, or someone writing my literary biography might find useful (can any writer truthfully claim to wholly lack the narcissistc tendency of contemplating potential greatness such that would lead to others caring about the scraps they doodled on in high school?).

Obviously I am not going to buy a house.

But unfortunately, I don’t think this dilemma of (cherishing the life I have lived and wanting to in some small way preserve it) and (wanting to be unattached so that I might leap between countries and adventures without the hindrance of strings) is going to disappear anytime soon. Or ever really. There are always going to be strings attaching me to places and things and people, maybe it’s just a matter of not letting them pull me apart. I don’t always have to let go or sever the strings, but sometimes, for a time, one or two might need a little more slack than I am accustomed to giving.

Last weekend I had the opportunity to spend a couple days in Vancouver, BC.
Yes, I will admit that I was there for a certain fan event for my favorite TV show. Laugh and ridicule if you’d like, but it was amazing.

At any rate.

I think I love Vancouver. At least the little bit that I saw. Whether it’s just a stage that maybe I’ll grow out of or a seed that Europe planted, the city has laid claim to a certain corner of my heart. It hasn’t quite yet set up house yet, and I often forget it’s there until I venture outside the familiarity and see it light up with excitement and pride.

My trips to San Diego and Vancouver have taken my upcoming move to the Seattle area, dimmed the hesitation, and kindled an enthusiasm that has yet to fade (but will, I’m sure, once the clouds have passed their hey-day).

But it seems the larger residence still belongs to the small town, to the house that doesn’t have cell reception and sometimes forgets the rest of the world exists.

So I’ll go traipsing off to the city (again) in just under two weeks. But I don’t think this is “the rest of my life” just yet. It could be, I suppose – who really knows. All the same, it feels more like a temporary adventure. One that I plan on thoroughly enjoying, of course, but all the same, just an interlude.

I’m a palindrome again (that being 22, obviously; not that I changed my name to Hannah, as it almost was in-utero). It seems that life really does keep getting better as you get older – although I feel that is in no small part due to the inexplicable blessing of God, as well as my own determination to never approach a birthday saying “Boy, those sure were the good ol’ days.”

Maybe that last one is a little optimistic, but that is what I aim for (unless of course you’re trying to look on the bright side in which case a little rain cloud with your silver lining probably won’t hurt).

Really though, why can’t 30 be as good as 20 or whatever. In my short tenure on Earth, I’ve had it pretty good (even [and possibly especially] when I complain). And let’s be honest – it’s only been getting better. As I see more of the world, I know a) how much I have to be thankful for and b) how much more there is to see. Therefore: reason for joy upon waking up a day older #1: I have another opportunity to live and see more of this crazy place.

And as I encounter more people, hear stories and make friends, I come to know a) how inexplicably blessed/lucky/fortuitous/overflowing have I been to know and much less be known by such amazing people and b) there are nearing 7 billion people on the planet! Reason for joy upon waking up a day older #2: I get to keep hanging out with some of these amazing people (and I need to make the most of their company while I can), and even when we part – as growing up has taught me almost everyone must do – what we had was something great and worth investing in, whether it was for a month or a decade.

Maybe I didn’t take my daily dose of reality today. Or maybe this is it, and I don’t take it often enough.

Although I have managed to come upon employment (thank you craigslist), I am still struggling with this overwhelming enigma of what to do with my life.

Various songs that come up in shuffle ask me this very question, prompt action, and bemoan directionlessness.

I am reminded of what teachers and others have oft reminded us: to whom much is given, much will be required.  Well, I have been given much, this much I know. I want to do what is subsequently required of me (except I feel like it would be rather helpful to know what that is…).

The message this past Sunday touched on following God into the unknown. Life is an adventure; trust.

I’ll figure it out sometime, maybe. But I suppose in the meantime I need to decide to live and make something of this life I’ve been given.

Mary Oliver is admittedly not my favorite poet, but I do love this poem that Laurie shared at the English Senior Breakfast (and before in at least one of the classes I’ve taken from her). It is one that makes my heart shrink so that not enough blood circulates through my lungs or the walls of my throat.

The Summer Day – Mary Oliver

Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean-
the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down-
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
I don’t know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn’t everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?

subject: “BigCityDreams”, NeverShoutNever!