some things have to be...

Once again, I find myself methodically doing that which I dread.

Packing used to mean adventure. These days, it just means leaving. Again.

Slowly climbing back up the basement stairs, bearing the burden of my well-traveled purple luggage, I realized that nearly a year ago, I was doing the same motions. Could it really be a whole year has passed? Who was that girl that I see in my memory doing these very things?

The suitcase is positioned in the tiny corner of the hall outside my door. Slowly over the next three days, it will be filled with pieces of my existence, both old and new. [starting with the new birthday tennis racket. i love it so much] So far, some mod-podge [to keep me artsy and sane], a book to return to my Grandma's, and my leather shoe oil are the only other contents of the large purple [easy to spot on the luggage carousel] suitcase.

There's a box sitting in my dining room with my name and a strangely familiar, yet very foreign zip code on it. I made a bright blue tag, hoping that it would help me be more cheerful. [still waiting for that one to kick in]

And yet, in leaving, I'm also returning. I'm returning to the familiar and the comfortable. My pillows and posters and down comforter. Strange that I could be so torn. [still 7/8 portland girl, though] Somehow, I know that once I get there, so much more will make sense.

I'm looking forward to the faces [tb, ke, ah, kp, ts, jm, dm, et, and all the rest], but not the homework.

I'm anxious about Miss Aubrey Calligan, freshman unknown.

in Your love i find release
a haven from my unbelief

It's the transitions that are difficult. Moving a delicate plant from one world to another is a risk. But if I make it through the winter, I'm sure I'll bloom again in the spring.

Maybe leaving can be an adventure, too...