Lost in a Fog

For the first time in months I am on the verge of tears.  I woke up early and trudged through the day in a total funk.  The fog hung thick and low as I crouched over the coal pot.  It followed me all day although the sun came out blazing.

I fumed cooking dinner.  I lay on my yoga mat and put my feet in the air.  Breathe.  Be here now, white woman.  Change what you can.  Accept what you cannot.  I read my book about underage marriage in Yemen and felt worse.  Why did I bring so many depressing books?  Epic fail.

Just before I started writing I lay down on my bed and played some Michael Franti and Missy Higgins.  I tried to force my body and my mind to relax and suddenly the flood wall burst and emotions I hadn’t acknowledged rushed out.

Two years, I thought suddenly.  Two more years until I see my family.  Where is my home anymore?  Where will I belong?  How will my heart juggle these two polar worlds?  I thought about my dog and my parents, Wilson’s and PS Gallery, my blue apartment with six pillows and crisp white sheets.  I thought about running and snow and how impossible it feels to return to any of it… like somehow that is a dream… or this is a dream or at the very least there has been a horrific mix-up.

How will I have words for any of this in America?  What will I say after two years in Africa?  How will anyone ever understand?  What will my family say?  How did they agree to let me go?

I miss them more than I’ve allowed myself to admit.