Blood of my blood,

Flesh of my flesh,

Heart of my heart,

Lay me to rest.

 

Slay me no more,

Leave me my mind

Spare me my soul

Release thou this bind.

 

Lend me your ear,

Return my goodwill

Make easy this life

While I have one still.

 

Blood of my blood,

Flesh of my flesh,

Oh heart of my heart,

Pray heed this request.

Things are moving a little too quickly. I expected some transition time, some quiet time, a span of maybe a month or so to quietly and secretly get used to this place, this school and meet people on my own terms. But, it's all been happening too fast. I haven't had a moment to feel lonely, or to put it another way, to feel alone but content in this new place. I'm not necessarily complaining. I must have prayed for a situation like this, a smooth transition, people to call, things to do, not a moment's rest. My father has been praying for a husband for me (without me asking him to because I'm so very not ready for that situation yet), and this crush thing is resolving itself (in that my crush has admitted to crushing on me too...what are the odds).

And yet. I don't know. Too quickly. I almost can't believe the new life has begun, has moved on and is now rolling on without my conscious effort. It's all too fast, and mostly painless and non-scary, which is scary. I expected to suffer a little, to build some fortitude. Instead I'm trying to find time to manage it all.And wondering why it even bothers me at all. It's mostly because this situation is good, ideal even, but I, unfortunately am not. I'm not good. Not as good, as scholarly, as settled as I wanted me to be before I started living again. I can already hear the logical responses to that statement, that "no one is truly ready for anything" and "good is relative" and "just be happy". Yeah. All of those things make sense.

But that doesn't erase the fact that I sort of wish my life here, as new as that is, was already a little simpler.

Skepticism might be the death of us;

But we’re afraid of the death of logic

Except logically there is no logic

in a world where the sky is blue.

We don’t believe in shadows

But shadows are everywhere we walk

And no matter how far we walk

The old ways are the only ways with magic.

~Tricia~

It has taken me some time to realize that to cry, to let free frustration and fear, to admit to some vulnerability is actually a form of strength...particularly when you can accept these things, the vulnerability and fear, as being real but not enough to slow you down.

I cried two days ago (for a combination of reasons including physical pain as well as emotional stress), silent tears behind a hand clasped over my mouth at first, almost choking on my hurt, my fear. But soon I was crying, sobs and gasps for air and I made no attempt to wipe away the tears. It was startling to hear myself; whimpers and sobs echoing in the room. It had been a while since I'd heard myself cry. I'd cried recently enough (preparation for this recent move almost across country has taxed me) but mostly in silence. This most recent time was not unexpected but still a bit scary, a bit unorthodox. And yet I feel like I've had a bit of a revelation because of it.

 I am strong.

Several people on several different occasions have had cause to say this to me, and I always took the compliment without really listening, without really acknowledging what it meant. It had never occurred to me that I possessed any kind of strength, let alone enough for people to see it. True enough I've done many things on my own, taken care of myself for a very long time and I've managed to achieve a level of responsibility as well as accomplishments that are perhaps impressive to some people (to me most days too, when I allow myself to be impressed). Honestly though I haven't given any of it much thought. Everything I've done seemed like a natural progression...sort of. I have had some trials, and sometimes wondered if quitting weren't the best option, but I almost felt at all those times like quitting wasn't ever a serious option. A change maybe, but not quitting entirely.

I've always felt that because I don't have as clear a vision or a passionate goal that I'm working towards in mind as some people I've come to know over the years my accomplishments were...so so.  An accomplishment yes, but to what end? I have no end in mind. Never really have. Finished my undergrad degree and didn't think twice about going to graduate school. It was the obvious next step, not because I had a dream job in mind (aside from traveling and making money off of it), but because it seemed like the next step. I'm on to the PhD now with a bit of a clearer sense of where I'm headed, but only vaguely because I realize there is some comfort in that vagueness for me. There has always been something terrifying about knowing my future. I have no idea why. And yet there is the part of me that wishes I had an acceptable response for people and the quizzical look I get every time I explain to them that I'm getting a PhD in Folklore (my own mother asked how I'd find a job when I'm done over the phone yesterday). A part of me does realize I need to write the vision and make it plain. A part of me realizes that I do actually have a vision, and end in mind but maybe one that I don't entirely believe I can have, and so my goals seem hazy. But there is always something we want. Something we think we can do, that we're good at. That we have some passion for.

I've moved to a state about a 12 hour drive from the only place I've ever really known to live on my own for about three to four years (God willing! I refuse to be here much longer than that) and I did it despite the fear and the doubt in my heart. I intend to do something out here. I intend to get what I came for and do something with it. And while I'm here maybe I'll make a little bit of a difference to someone.

I am strong, and I must continue to remember that.

I have approximately two weeks left on the east coast before moving inland, midwest-ish to Bloomington, Indiana for my PhD. For months I've been having mini panic attacks of sorts; mild things involving no screaming or crying or the stomping of feet, but panic attacks nonetheless. Fear, primarily, is at the root of them all. I have no idea what Bloomington is like, aside from the weekend I spent there in May (the first day of which I called my sister and declared I hated it) where I discovered that it is an hour from a major metropolitan area and is chock full of beautiful, green and plentiful trees (which mostly delights me, but also makes me wonder whether I will go crazy because of all the quiet and non-smog infused air). I move in two weeks, and I'm realizing it is the farthest I have ever moved on my own, and that I'll be there for a longish period of time (3 years if I'm lucky, 4 years at most). I know no one out there really, except for my ex who lives in Chicago, which is decidedly very much north of Bloomington (and in a different state), and an Indiana U student who used to work at my undergraduate institution (but I don't really intend to bother him very much).

I'll be living in a fabulously cute apartment, but by myself and off campus. Enter the fear. There are a few obvious things to be afraid of: not making friends, doing horribly at school, being shunned by all of Indiana. Clearly these things are next to impossible ( I might manage to get shunned by most of Bloomington...possibly). Really I'm just not looking forward to the work it takes to build a whole new life. To cultivate new friendships, and potentially a romantic involvement (apparently necessary since people seem to think I'll come back from Bloomington engaged, or married with children, or not come back from Bloomington at all because I got engaged, married and had kids there...). The work I'll need to do to succeed academically (which I unequivocally intend to do). The work it'll take to keep myself sane. The work will all get done, but it will be tiring and laborious. I suspect though that much of it will be fun and obviously rewarding. For the moment I think I'm just holding on to the fear because maybe I think I need to.

So, I have two weeks. And during those two weeks I intend to use my time wisely. Tonight I am at a small Bed and Breakfast in Pennsylvania. I have never ventured to stay in one of these before, and some time ago during a particularly large panic attack I decided to book this place for one night to clear my head. To relax. So far it has been wonderful. Creaky wooden stairs. A one eyed white fluffy dog who jingles when he walks. Floorboards older than anything I own, or could conceive of owning. Clean, but lived in rooms. Wooden armoires of deeply dark colored wood. Fresh cut flowers in a painted vase. Jazz on a small clock radio near the bed. Brightly colored quilt and a white stuffed bunny on the bed. A cookie on a small silver platter brought up and placed in the room by one of the inn owners. Excellent, all of it. I intend to fill the tub down the hall with warm soapy water and sit surrounded by sandal wood scented tea light candles. I also intend to read a book, perhaps in its entirety, in this bed tonight.

No fear tonight. None at all.