Everything

If you're expecting another post about green hills and sheep, let me do you a favor and gently direct you away for now.

For those of you who haven't heard yet and are concerned, there's been a death in my family.

A few cousins and me.  The story goes that they used to put on plays and I wanted so badly to be involved...so they gave me the pink ribbons and let me run around.  Ladies and gentlemen, my family.

She's not in this photo, because I will cry if I have to see her face...but this is her home.  She is one of the most important people in my life.  I will not use the past tense, primarily because I'm not convinced that the past tense is necessary.  If you want more detail than this, ask.  And look, friends - I know this blog is supposed to be about my experience of being abroad, but this intrusion is now part of that experience.  So if you will, allow me a bit of flexibility, because things aren't following the rules I set out in August.

These words have been brewing since yesterday afternoon, when I crawled into my bed and decided not to leave until I was good and ready.

Dropping anchor

Today's one of those days when all I need is this:

Over the past six weeks, as I've explored what it means to live abroad, I've been on the lookout for reasons to be thankful.  Gratitude (when I can manage it) has an "anchoring" effect on me; when I don't make a conscious effort to embrace it, I'm liable to spin off in a thousand chaotic directions.

Dublin, Part III: locks and tombs

Here’s my last post about Dublin, friends.  It’s a little overdue, but better late than never.  A few quick updates before I begin:

• I’ve decided not to switch apartments after all.  (Again, if you haven't heard the details yet and would like them, let me know.  It's probably for the best.)
• I’m not sick anymore.  My voice is still irritatingly rough-sounding, but on the whole, things are much, much better compared to how I felt last week.

Back to business, then.  Saturday was spent touring/exploring Dublin:

Clinging

 The last few days have been relatively nondescript.  I’ve had a few Neurophysiology lectures (Endocrinology doesn’t begin until mid-October), and they’ve all been manageable.  I’ve spent some time keeping house - sweeping floors, taking out the trash, organizing cabinets and drawers, and the like.  Last night, I met Y and a few other people from the Salthill trip at a pub in town, just to scope out the nightlife around here.  (I found it to be moderately lively...but then, New York does set a pretty high standard in this arena.)  It was discouraging that I couldn’t spend my time developing my relationship with Y, because she had been drinking long before she arrived in town and so was in no state to talk about anything meaningful.  (I’ve long been aware, friends, that the bar scene is not for me.  If I’m going to have a drink, I’d prefer to do it with good friends, ideally in a setting that’s conducive to solid conversation and growth.)

Moving to the rhythm

Time to go home!

When I rolled over in bed this morning, groping around on my nightstand so I could hit "snooze" on my cell phone alarm, this was the first thought that crossed my mind.  And then I realized - again - that until December, I’m here.  For the next fifteen weeks, I’m here, and so much that is important to me…is not.  In the grand scheme of things, four months isn't a very long time; that's certainly true.  But, you see: Rishi isn’t here.  My friends aren’t here (except for Teresa, of course, but there are other people, obviously.)  
My church isn’t here.  Union isn’t here.  My guitar isn’t here.