Tuesday, August 26, 2014


I know from moving throughout my childhood that it takes time to get used to a new place.  It usually took me, and others, about 6 months for a place to start feeling like home.  And then when you moved again, you missed that place, too.  I've warned my children of this.  I've told them that the first friends they make might not be the ones they'll really be close to.  It takes time to find true friends.  And I know this.  I know it from personal, repeated experience.

But knowing and KNOWING are two different things, and I can't quite convince my heart to accept that things just have to be this way for a while.  It hurts, and I want the hurting to stop.  I feel like I am weighed down with a thousand pound anchor, deep in the middle of the ocean.  I smile when I'm around others.  I might even truly enjoy myself.  I'm finding ways to be useful and use my time well.  But when I'm walking through this house, especially when I'm alone now that the girls are in school, every step feels like one of those dark dreams where you keep hoping to wake up at any moment, but can't.  Every step contains within it an echo of the phrase, "This is not my home."  And it's a very lonely sound.

I know this will pass.  I acknowledge that with my mind, even if my heart stubbornly shakes its head in disbelief, that I might one day miss this place, too.  For now, though, I'm just missing my home.

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