Four weeks ago, I turned in my master’s thesis. Now, I am sitting on that perfect screened porch in Georgia (my parents’ screened porch) while movers pack up all their stuff (and mine, too) to move it to Virginia, and I can’t for the life of me figure out where time went. I have memories like a disorganized box of photos; every once in a while I try to sift through them and process a whirlwind month.
I’ve had to say multiple rounds of goodbyes, which are terrible bittersweet things, and this week I’ll say more, only they’ll be hello-goodbyes this time. I really do feel like a wanderer now, going from house to house and city to city, getting more of a taste for travel and more of a desire for home, wherever that is.
In a last-ditch effort to take advantage of being located in Europe, and a celebration for completing a thesis that I sometimes doubted would ever end, I went to Scotland, Norway, and Iceland. I expected Scotland would be great – and it was even better than I expected. I thought Norway would be beautiful – and it was, but I was sick, (thanks, Scotland), so I didn’t see much of it. And I didn’t know what to expect from Iceland – but it was absolutely spectacular.
|the twisty, turreted streets of Edinburgh|
|quiet forests in Norway|
|good grief, Iceland, stop being so epic|
It’s time to put down roots again, which is always a chancy move, because you never know when you’re going to have to pull them up. Sometimes I think it would be better to stay in one place for the rest of my life, and sometimes I think I just shouldn’t even make friends – but I always dismiss both of those options as equally impossible, even if I am a homebody prone to hermit-like behavior.