I see the morning moving over the hills

Home.

I still haven't had time to process everything from the last few days -- Friday, Saturday and Sunday consisted of whirls and winds of constant motion, and yesterday I spent in recovery. A lot of it still seems surreal -- it'll take a few days to absorb the reality that this is no temporary visit, but a longer stay.

The worst part of leaving was saying goodbye to Meg and Phillip and Josie. We had a good time on Friday night, hanging out and making fun of each other like usual, and when the time came for farewells, we all held it together pretty well...in my case, until the second I walked out the door, where I broke down and drove back to The State of Denmark weeping. (Fortunately I seem to have garnered a lot of experience crying and driving at the same time. I don't know when exactly I developed this skill, but it does come in handy periodically.)

So the last few days have been an internal turmoil of sadness, joy and physical exhaustion.

Where I'll live remains somewhat up in the air. I had initially planned to stay in my grandmother's mobile home for awhile: She has just taken up residence in an assisted living facility, and my parents are in the process of trying to sell the mobile home, particularly as the park does not allow subletting, but would concede for me to stay as long as the home remained up for sale. Now, however, it looks as though it's going to sell out from under me; so, for the time being, I'm bunking with my folks. Plan B is to find a job and an apartment within two weeks so that I can start unpacking and vacate the parental homestead before we all get horribly sick of each other. So far so good; but I've swallowed a great deal of my fiercely independent pride in returning to Erie, and I want to preserve what little is left.

Really, however, this was the only choice. Carting all of my stuff out of The State of Denmark showed me how awful it really was there; I've suffered about a thousand dollars' worth of clothing damage thanks to the mold I didn't even know existed until this past week. Considering my considerable allergy to mold, I have no idea how I didn't wind up deathly ill; chalk it up to the power of Zyrtec and the provisions of God, I suppose. I surveyed the ruined clothing spread out on the porch railing and thought, Michigan, haven't you taken enough from me?

But I'm gone, it's done, I'm finished. Choosing what I chose constituted a life-or-death decision; I couldn't have lasted much longer where I was. And nothing -- not pride, not determination, not stubbornness, not prejudice nor long-held goals -- is worth yielding to death: death of the mind, the heart, the will, the body. Nothing.

So here I am, still catching my breath, still recovering from the long slow horror of the last year. It has certainly had its shining brilliant spots of wonder and its steady pulsings of joy, but mostly those spots and pulses shone and beat from some kind of distance, and the immediacy of my situation was difficult. And I'm tired of the immediacy of my situation being difficult for no good reason. It's time for a change.

Already my social calendar is blossoming with people happy to have me home. Every new invitation makes me smile. I haven't even been back four days.

I'm happy to be back -- yesterday I purloined a bunch or two of grapes from an obliging vineyard and drove down to the beach where I spent hours in my teenage years staring over the water, staring north, wondering what my future held. I took off my sandals and walked on sand that doesn't pretend to be anything but rocks ground down to grit, I felt the chill October water plunging toward my ankles, and I stared north over the water and wondered what my future holds. And then, with no answers and a spreading peace, I turned and faced the hills, the fire of turning leaves flaming up in the afternoon sun, and I drove home.