We're home, with all that entails.
We get to sleep in a comfortable bed, with pillows just so. There are a bathmat and a shower curtain and face cloths and enough towels. We get to see our friends, and, even though they've gotten along just fine without us for a year, they seem eager to see us. I get to see my niece, and watch her delight in the toy I carefully chose for her 2nd birthday present. Edward keeps saying, "I'd forgotten how nice our home was," and I concur.
I also get to spend hours going through junk mail, afternoons hacking at 12 foot weeds in our "garden," and days unpacking and moving things up stairs and down. I have to deal with taxes and put together sabbatical documentation and pick up the pieces of my life.
Edward has it even worse. He has to deal with immediate deadlines at his job as well as my panicked feeling that we have to get the house unpacked right now so it will be done before school starts.
Being home is a mixed blessing. I think I'm glad to be home, but I find myself slipping back into some self-destructive habits. I want to be in the classroom, and am excited about the new year, yet I'm remembering that the last two times I took extended time off from my job for travel, I quit my job very soon after returning.
There's a big difference this time: I hate myself a whole lot less than I did those other times.
I'd like to finish this journal, the first I've ever kept for a sustained period of time, with some feeling of closure. But my life isn't a novel, and I'm not yet ready for closure in my life. Not nearly.