I'm back home. Well, in a new room, new house, new context...but I'm back in San Diego. The day is still spent running into people I haven't seen in months and the ever-burning question: "how was the trip?!"
How was the trip? Magical? Contemplative? Insightful? Wearying? Beautiful? Beautiful.
But it's a strange thing being home again. I feel as though my soul has aged decades and I'm still in the process of determining what exactly that means. I'm busy on campus, again. Work has started and, between the tours office and transfer orientation, my days are a consistent string of long hours and lots of people. Which is satisfyingly rewarding, but I've discovered that my evenings are sacred. Once I return home, and find the refuge of my room, my energy is spent. Gone. The best I can do is cook dinner, pour a glass of wine, turn on soft flamenco, sift through emails, update my calendar, read for a bit....and sleep. It's perfect. It's when I silently reconnect with the world, with my own heartbeat and thoughts, and put a gentle close on the busy, busy day.
But I get called out for it. "Do you ever go out?" one roommate quipped as I slipped into my pjs. "It's a Friday night!" the other reminded me as I sipped aforementioned glass of wine.
Indeed. It is.
And I'm incredibly happy with my pjs and flamenco. My blankets and wine. I may have turned 90 over the summer....that definitely might have happened. But for now, in this moment, I'm going to give 90-year old me her space.