Signs of the Times

It was so hard, not to see signs wherever I looked. Silly ones, mostly like--

The strange feeling of peace I got the morning I got the invitation to interview in Indiana.

That my divorce case file begins with the letters "IND."

That the night before my interview, my "nephew" Wesley hugged my legs and said "I want to keep you here forever!"

That the evening following my interview, I wandered into a downtown boutique and heard the music of Capercaille playing on the store's sound system--Capercaille, a rather obscure musical band that I had never before heard of before moving to Indiana.

That the next morning (a day or so after Groundhogs Day), I was scrolling through my Facebook feed, and came across this gem:

I couldn't let myself hope too much, but oh--that picture was uncanny.

And prescient, as it turns out...because I received a phone call this last Friday, with a job offer.

I'm going home. And golly, I hope this time, it's for good.

The Shadow Recedes

Blearily, I stumbled out of bed--washed my face, brushed my teeth, ironed my hair, donned my outfit, painted my face, took my pills, fed my cats, grabbed my things, locked the door. Outside my home, it wasn't QUITE daytime yet--the sun was shining, and casting a golden-pinkish-orange light over Mt. San Jacinto. The shadow of the mountain had not yet crept over the land. It was 50 degrees out that morning, and no doubt all over the desert, people were sitting on their patios, sipping their coffee, and marveling at the magic of living life in Southern California in January.

Not me.

This was just two days ago. As I drove to work at an ungodly hour--the Goon Festival required brutal work this week--Mt. San Jacinto glowing rosily at me for a good part of the time--I thought of bleak winter mornings back home, in Indiana. It was about 3 degrees that morning, back home.

I thought of how days and weeks and months and years slipped by, as I sat at the reference desk and watched patrons browse the new books, and helped them find their information, and watched ten years of my life slip past, as the Library (my true home in California) changed subtly while I passively sat by. Sure, I changed too, took on new tasks and cheerfully evolved--although my position and salary didn't, past a certain point. But there's no denying the fact that a lot of years chugged along while I sat in the same spot, both literally and metaphorically. Time was still chugging along, actually. How many more days am I going to have to watch the sun rise here? I pondered, more than a little grumpily. How many more Goon Festivals will I have to staff?

I thought of the countless dreams I have had, through the years, of returning home. Of course, Dream Home is weirdly different and surreal--sometimes an amalgamation of Real Home and many other life memories--and sometimes just plain NOT real, but still, hauntingly, mournfully familiar.

And then I thought, randomly, about how suddenly things can change. How you can chug along, quietly, trying to make the changes happen. And they won't happen, perhaps--until, unexpectedly, they DO, and then everything changes. And it happens that suddenly, and swiftly, and subtlely.

All of these thoughts, I had as I drove to work on Tuesday morning. And realizing that the change would happen, sometime, somehow, some way, brought me a little bit of peace, finally.

Later that morning, I got a phone call from a potential employer.

So I Guess You Call This Autumn (2015 Version)

Today was totally one of those "fooled you!" kind of days. I could have pretended that it was a gloomy Midwestern fall day, just looking out the window at the leaden-grey skies. Unfortunately, the second I stepped outside, I knew (and felt) the ugly truth: it was 90 degrees with 70% humidity. Just another late summer day in the deserts of Southern California. Still, I indulged in imagining cold air against my skin, gloomy evenings, rain lashing against the windows, pleasantly warm (not oppressively hot) kitchens. Pretty imaginings, and not really anything that could get me too homesick.

But, even so, the homesickness lurks. Yesterday, I gave Duncle a call. It was the first time I had spoken with him since my magical summer vacation, and as soon as I started talking to him, I realized why: the sound of his voice pretty much made me burst into homesick tears.

Today, there was no new news or word from the jobs that I applied to last week. And tonight, no new potential jobs posted. It's easy to just swing into utter despair, but day by torturously long day, I fiercely struggle not to. I will tell myself this as much as I need to, until I accept and believe it: every day I am still "stuck" out here is an opportunity--to retrench financially, to improve my health, to make myself more marketable, to build my character (oooh, goody, another character-building experience), to get all my ducks in a row.

Someday, I will go home. Some day, I will enjoy that chilly fall weather. Who knows? Maybe I will enjoy it with someone. Or not. For now, it is enough for me to strive for this simple, modest thing: a fulfilling job that enables me to go home to Indy and spend the rest of my life there.

Going through the Library tonight, checking the doors and locks and preparing to close the same as I have done hundreds of times over the past eight years, it occurred to me that it feels a little like the end is close–closer than I think. Or maybe I am just gently, slowly detaching. Kind of like that X-Files episode, where Scully was caught between life and death, and deciding if she wanted to cut the rope from the people who loved her, and drift away to whatever came next, or be reeled back into shore. 

I don’t know when the end will come, when I will leave the Library and California, and this life that I have grown accustomed to, but I want to be emotionally ready when that happens. 

(And no, this is not a post about suicide. Don’t worry, folks, it’s a post about moving home.)

Home Again, Home Again

The summer night presses close against my open window. Because we are a ways away from town, the night is even darker than it would be otherwise, and the noises are that of country, not civilization–A lone tree frog, croaking a couple of times each minute; a persistent cricket; some faint rustles near the treeline, which could be a deer or a coyote or serial killer, but most likely is one of the neurotic chipmunks that tunnel their way through the backyard and drive my poor Aunt Jo insane. 

Earlier in the day, at my request, she took me around and showed her various gardens, filled with everything from kale to black-eyed susans to green beans to raspberries to hydrangeas. But for each blossoming bush, she had a story of one plant crushed by bunnies, another decimated by hungry deer, yet another ravaged by the birds who aren’t satisfied with the feeder. After a while, I felt like I was getting less of a tour and more of a roll call of the honored dead vegetation, fallen at the hands (teeth) of Southern Indiana critters and varmints.

Still, those chipmunks are goddamned cute.

So, day 1 of 17 has passed, filled with kind relatives and scrumptious food and fireflies and firecrackers and my quiet resolve to return home, permanently, one of these days.