It’s hard to start again. I’m not sorry I’m doing it, and it’s hard.
I’m back in a part of the country that feels deeply familiar, and I’m a stranger here. I built a life on the opposite coast but that life imploded, and there were ways that I never really felt I belonged there anyway. I was always aware that my roots never found hospitable ground to take hold in. Now my roots are starting to trust that they’ve come home, at the same time as I’m feeling ungrounded.
So, while I miss aspects of it, it’s not that I want my old life back, though I am grateful for much of it. I have been enriched by the friendships and connections made over those decades. I was talking with one of those old friends this afternoon, telling her about needing community and wanting to find a part time job so I can be around people. “I’ve started the application for Target,” I told her. “Target?” she said. “I don’t see you at Target.” I don’t actually either. Hence, the incomplete application. (Any suggestions?)
I’ve been here a few days shy of two months. My apartment is pretty well set up. The pictures are on the walls. I’ve made one friend in the building, and there are a couple more possibles. I’ve managed to find medical practices that are willing to take new patients. As a rule, I walk a couple of miles a day, in a park or on a trail by the Mohawk River, mostly by myself but sometimes with my new friend. The holidays are coming and my oldest friend’s daughter has invited me to spend them with her and her family, two and a half hours south of here. Once again, I am grateful for the friendship and the connection. I know that things are going well and recognize that it takes time to build a life.
And I am lonely. In addition to time, it takes a lot of energy to keep putting oneself out there. I can’t always do it, just like I can’t always write. I know both things are good for me. So I sat myself down here tonight and wrote to you. Two birds with one proverbial stone.