coming back to home from home

I just want to write. At this moment, snot pouring inconveniently, my head still a bit achy, the smell of paint boring into me, I want to write. (And for some reason, I keep typing 'right' instead.)

Maybe it's because I've been reading posts on writing, on its necessity, its struggle, its beauty (http://sittinthereoncapitolhil.blogspot.com/2012/01/dear-hilary-love-hilary-life-unmasked.html, and http://www.billycoffey.com/2010/01/writing-naked/). Maybe it's because I received two letters yesterday, both written in script, both well formed and encouraging. Maybe it's because that one short postcard I penned last night was a match, and the fuse fizzed all night, and now the wood is catching on fire. Maybe it's because words feed me, hold me, hurt me, help me, and right now I can use all the help I can get.

Because sickness is watching me. Standing too close, draping its unpleasant arm across my shoulder, using the top of my head as a chinrest. I am homesick. I am heartsick. I am bodysick. I am soulsick. (No. Not 'I am,' but 'I am fighting not to be.') It's only been a few days since I returned to the East Coast, and I miss my family something terrible. So much. So so much. It hurts. And I haven't seen many here, yet, haven't had many hugs, haven't done much except shiver in the bitter cold outside and cook to distract myself inside. (The cooking went well. That was a blessing. And it warmed the kitchen substantially.) And my body is at odds with me. I know I deserve this, the way I treated it, the toll the traveling and sleeplessness took. But I want it to heal faster. I want it to prove to me that it's happier than it was a year ago, by recovering more quickly now. (Patience, especially with myself, has never been a strong point. Parentheticals, apparently, are.)

Ah, me. This January, there are too many moving, unfocused parts. And my heart is sore within me. Last night, as I told the chiropractor that I would have to stop getting adjustments until I can save enough to afford it, I almost burst out crying. (I didn't. And he said they'll try to work something out with me that I can afford. Which almost made me cry again...) Driving home, I just wanted to keep going, find a dark cliff by the water, curl up, and weep. Instead, I made dinner, and wrote my sister a postcard. That helped.

The most difficult part of going home is always coming back.

I don't like this sadness. I don't like the fever. I don't like the homesickness. I want to rejoice, to give thanks, to be filled with joy. So I am thankful today isn't as cold as yesterday. And I am thankful that my experimental chicken noodle soup turned out spectacularly. I am thankful my bed is warm. I have food to eat, a place to live, and friends.

And this too shall pass. The chaos will subside. January's uncertainty will give way to direction and clarity. God will guide and provide. The homesickness will never quite go away, but I can live with it. My family is a phone call away. They have a mail box. And it is such a blessing to have them. Blessing... There are many blessings. Rejoice anyway, little one. And hope.

And all shall be well, and all shall be well,
and all manner of thing shall be well.