Some days the gray wind wraps itself tight around our house and we wrap ourselves tight in blankets and read books and drink tea and go to bed early. Some days the sun emerges slow and golden for a few hours and we emerge from our shelters to soak it in.
Some days the dear and familiar pull hard at me and there is nothing but a sense of duty and my own feet that hold me here and Ireland feels like a thief who has taken away so much that I loved. Other days the brisk air fills my lungs and the green of everything fills my eyes and I am glad to be here in this strange and wonderful land of narrow winding roads and blooming gorse hedges and soft green hills.
Just over one week has passed since I left the land of frozen white and piercing blue I’d learned to love. Idaho was a good place — a place that grew on me, slowly but with a strength I couldn’t resist. It was a place of belonging, a place of good and honest and dear people, home cooked meals and wholesome conversation around the table, structured school days, delightful and demanding small children, bright and bitter cold, rugged and magnificent mountains, wide flat valleys, and someone I can’t forget.
Worlds change and we start over. Now I drive on the left side of the road and bake and sell things instead of teaching children. There is much to learn yet. We are strangers to one another, this world and I, though not as much as we once were. We are becoming acquainted. A year will give us time to become comfortable friends. Meanwhile, I have far to go and little to build on, but I keep going forward.