Last week I got email from Jen with an incredibly warm and supportive reminder that I have been writing this blog for twelve whole months. It was July 14, Bastille Day, last summer that I began telling the story of this year and now--almost without me even realizing it--this experience of going away is almost over and soon it will be time to come home.
What does that mean, where is my next home? I am not sure. I spent three days last weekend looking at what felt like dozens of apartments everywhere from North Berkeley to Alameda and yet my goal to return to the mountains Sunday afternoon with a brand-new set of keys in my hand went unmet. My stuff still lives in a storage space on Webster Street and by the time I get to sleep in my own bed once again fifteen months will have passed since I last pulled up the covers and closed my eyes for one last night of sleep on Judah Street, two springs ago now.
I am trying not to be impatient, I am trying not to stress out about wanting to know where I will next cook my own dinner and scrub my own bathtub but it is hard at times. For now I relish the familiarity of drifting off to dream at night in my little camp house among the tall trees but at the same time I know soon the time will come for me to pack up and move once again, to leave this place for one last as-of-yet-unknown destination. Do I want to be settled? Yes. Will the time come, perhaps sooner than I could even imagine, that I will once again yearn for the nomadic life I've lived this past year? Yes. I am sure of it.
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