un peu de mélancolie

I actually don't have much to say as I continue to wallow in the liminal space of the almost-traveller. As I set off on another adventure, I shake my head at how much changed over the course of this week two years ago. My senior year of high school, the week from January 28th to February 5th saw my world turn upside-down. I had an impromptu night out with my dad in which I discovered rush-tickets to musicals, won the freedom to go venturing in the city in a blizzard, and started to like Philly. I had a fateful reconnaissance with two friends from Governor's School (plus a follow-up coffee date that would be the first of many).

And then I came home from a normal day of work to learn that the woman who taught me everything I know about horses, roses, patience, homeopathic medicine, and book exchanging had died suddenly.

Everything about my life seemed to scream that this was the end of the first installment of my life. Now it's two years later. I'm spending the night in a hotel room near JFK because tomorrow I intend to confront the ice and snow of the impending blizzard and take off for my second semester abroad. This time, I'll be writing from Berlin, from within a smaller group of Americans, from underneath a heavier course load. Life hasn't really settled since senior year. I'm never in one place long enough to live there. I'm spending quite a long time living out of a suitecase (plus carry-on!) and looking to do so next year as well because my options are either gain field experience doing that or graduate that May. Without the skills to be confident looking for a job and without the money to move into a city where the car won't eat up whatever paycheck I can manage.

Time keeps on slipping into the future...er...the past... and I would swear it's speeding up each day. Wonder what that teacher would think of where I am now? With everything going so fast, I'm glad to have a writer's spirit. The compulsion to write thus becomes the compulsion to record and to remember. And by remembering, I can maybe begin to pay her back for believing I could get this far in time. She was right.

Tchuss.

The roses bloom in her memory:
Mary Lynch
b. 5/12/1941
d. 1/31/2009