One year in England
The January ennui has set in. And as dramatic as that sounds, it’s a real thing, I swear. After all the bustle of the holidays, it’s to be expected. But it’s not really the holidays or the sparkle of December that I miss-it’s more a feeling that 2013 doesn’t have that much good in store for me. Which is just a crazy cynical way to look at a fresh start, but as of now, is how I’m feeling. Hopefully a year from now I can read this back, the future me who had a fantastic 2013, and laugh and say that was pretty dumb. Hopefully.
I passed the first week of the new year in a bundled up, cozy stupor, spending days one and two at home, on the couch with my books and my laptop and my Jon, days three and four at school, teaching private lessons, then trudging back home. The weather, not too cold and finally dry, in comparison to the stories of extensive snow and ice coming from back home. I would love some snow. The lack of it here tends to give me a sort of seasonal vertigo, where I can walk down the street and completely forget what month I’m in, or where I am at all. It is strange.
Just after Christmas, on December 27th, passed the one year anniversary of my indefinite move to England. It has been a year, let me tell you. And if you’ve read along with me, through this year (and maybe even longer, some of you), you know what kind of year it was. Good, and bad and everything in between. Lord knows I talked about it enough. But those are the things that make a year. It is strange to think that I can’t say when I will go home for good. Maybe I never will, we never will, and the thought makes me sad and nostalgic for things that haven’t even happened yet. It is strange to think that I still say “home” for multiple places. Columbus, Cardington, Brighton. When does that stop? Does it?
I know that home is an intangible idea, but it has never felt as intangible as during these last few years.