Home bittersweet home

As I round out the last evening in a very jam-packed home stay weekend, I am inclined to reflect on what it means for me to have left my home, or, for that matter, what home means in itself. My "respite" contrasted starkly with that of Saint, Hermes and Rusticus (also crashing for the weekend), who almost spent the entire time on the couch. I instead opted to run around like a mad woman, presumably because I have long since realized that what I most miss is connection and belonging. I constantly consider what this trip would have been like if my best friend had come. And when Teenie came to hike in Connecticut for a bit, I caught a glimpse of that which I left behind, and have been unable to duplicate on the trail. It saddened me. I say it wholly, honestly, constantly and always from the heart: I have the best friends in the entire world. And they, you, are my home.

I had built this visit up in my head; I came seeking reconnection. But in the swirl of friendly gatherings and drinks and dinners and dancing and storytelling and catching up, I never had a single one-on-one. Those are the interactions upon which I thrive, the ones dependent upon a mutual comfort that allows for deeper connection. Everyone so generously made plans around me all weekend, and I saw in the flesh many of the people toward whom I have mentally turned on the difficult parts of this journey. But I was still starving.

I was able, through some more very generous schedule rearranging, to have a long conversation, solo, with a best friend tonight. It felt like a deep breath. For the first time I gave voice to a lot of the emotional stress of the trail. I didn't have to play entertainer, relaying bear stories and storm stories and tales of food and equipment and statistics about weather and miles and state lines crossed and vistas seen or missed/enveloped in cloud. I could say, without fear of judgement: this is so hard sometimes. Quietly, it has been an emotional weekend, not at all what I expected and chalk-full of reminders that when I return for good I have a rebuilding to do. Until I came here for the weekend, it had not crossed my mind that I still might be wandering even after I finished this trip. I had not thought about that fact that after I pulled out of the race for a while, I might be left in the dust when I tried to get back on the track. This realization made me extremely uncomfortable; it caught me completely off-guard. I had turned to one of my best friends during the very emotional night before I left for Atlanta on March 13th. I turned to the same friend tonight, almost equally emotional, and said, "I was scared to leave, and now I'm scared to come back." In many ways, that's true.

For four months I have been walking towards my home, moving into what I knew. But as we head back to the trail tomorrow, I shall take my first steps of this journey in the other direction. As we make our way toward Vermont, I'll walk with the thought that what we left behind may have changed in our absence. The doors we walked through may have closed behind us. They may open again, having been painted a different color, and we will have to look afresh at an old familiar scene to realize that they still frame the entrances to comfort. I only hope that after following white blazes for 2200 miles I will be able to navigate without them.

I imagine the next few days of hiking will prove very difficult for me. I'll be in thought, which is so often my savior and probably more often my curse. Ah well, it makes for good writing though, right?

As always, friends: peace, love, and if you know anyone looking to take a chance on an unqualified but potentially productive and possibly, arguably, plausibly talented writer, I'll be back in September. Or 650 miles. And I've got journals.

Love,
WindUp