Scribbles From My Notebook
November 12, 2008
I used to dread November, the month in which my life always seemed to fall apart, year after year. The last couple of Novembers, however, have been okay. I'm starting to think that maybe the curse has been broken.
The past six days, however, have not just been okay -- they've been good. Last week was dark; by Thursday, I was feeling pretty overwhelmed by the loneliness, the longing, the frustration, the discontent, the frustration at feeling discontented. And then, as seems to be my habit, I realized the ludicrousness of my unhappiness, and with a vengeance, shook it off.
I've flung myself fully into November's arms, embracing her with a determination to take advantage of every opportunity she gives me, and to enjoy each one. And the simple thought that I'll be home in six weeks banishes any shades of homesickness that threaten to creep between me and my goal. If anything, thinking of home lends an excitement to my mood, a giddy little spring to my step ("thirty-nine days left ... thirty-eight days left...").
I've been feeling very lost here, very of of my rhythm. Out of myself. Out of sorts. I'm still trying to figure out who I am here. I feel like a freshman, or a Grade 9. But it's coming, slowly, gradually. It's getting a little easier now, with each day that passes.
In the meantime, while I try to be patient while waiting for the return of my rhythm, I'm asserting control over the things that are, in fact, in my power. Schoolwork. This journey towards myself, as Alan calls it. The development of my body, my self, my instrument.
I used to dread November, the month in which my life always seemed to fall apart, year after year. The last couple of Novembers, however, have been okay. I'm starting to think that maybe the curse has been broken.
The past six days, however, have not just been okay -- they've been good. Last week was dark; by Thursday, I was feeling pretty overwhelmed by the loneliness, the longing, the frustration, the discontent, the frustration at feeling discontented. And then, as seems to be my habit, I realized the ludicrousness of my unhappiness, and with a vengeance, shook it off.
I've flung myself fully into November's arms, embracing her with a determination to take advantage of every opportunity she gives me, and to enjoy each one. And the simple thought that I'll be home in six weeks banishes any shades of homesickness that threaten to creep between me and my goal. If anything, thinking of home lends an excitement to my mood, a giddy little spring to my step ("thirty-nine days left ... thirty-eight days left...").
I've been feeling very lost here, very of of my rhythm. Out of myself. Out of sorts. I'm still trying to figure out who I am here. I feel like a freshman, or a Grade 9. But it's coming, slowly, gradually. It's getting a little easier now, with each day that passes.
In the meantime, while I try to be patient while waiting for the return of my rhythm, I'm asserting control over the things that are, in fact, in my power. Schoolwork. This journey towards myself, as Alan calls it. The development of my body, my self, my instrument.