There are times when I keep thinking, hoping, wishing for more, when all of sudden, I realize this is it. This is all there is. And I am so very, very blessed.

May 10th, 2011

Wings win.
Bulls win.
Thunderstorm.
Smell of
*grass after rain
*lilacs
*laundry
Last day of internship.
*no more groups
*no more mess
*no more rowdy kids
*no more sweet kids
*no more Bridge
Drinks with co-workers.
*funny conversations
*seeing a new side
*holding parts back

I want to be the only one for miles and miles

"And I'm homesick... cause I no longer know... where home is..."

In 24 days, I'll be back in Chicago for almost a full week. I'll be staying at my friend's place, where I used to go all the time for game night, delicious dinners, and various holiday parties. I'll get to wander streets I once knew so well. I'll take the EL to my favorite old haunts. I'll see faces I haven't seen in over 9 months, that I once used to see daily, or at least weekly. I'll get to do things that I used to do each day, that used to be part-and-parcel of my life.

For some reason, the entire time I lived in Chicago, I told myself, told others, and truly believed that Chicago was just a stopping point. It was never "home." While I enjoyed my time there, I always felt like I was just passing through, just wasting time on my way to somewhere, and something, else. Despite living with or near my amazing friends, despite having a survivable job, despite living close enough (and far enough) to my family, despite all these things that make a place "home" for so many people, it never felt that way.

I thought maybe I'd find my home in Denver. I was hoping that this was going to be it, that this would be the last place (or at least last state) that I'd ever live (at least for many, many years). That Denver would have what I need... whatever that may mean. But I haven't found home here. I've worked hard to build a new life. I have my very own apartment; I have wonderful friends; I have the right career path (through schooling and internship). I love the mountains. I love the weather (though I could do with some more thunderstorms). I love the air, the flowers, the trees. I feel like Denver has everything I ever thought I wanted.

People keep telling my to give it time, and I will. But I find myself dreaming of Chicago. Longing for Chicago. Missing Chicago deep in my bones. I question whether it's just because I miss my friends (I do), or if it's the city itself. I ask myself, "if all the people you knew while living there for 3 years were gone, would you still want to move back after grad school?" Honestly? I just don't know.

I hope that when I go back to visit, in roughly 3 weeks, I'll get a better sense of what I want. That I'll be able to figure out if the place finally feels like home. Or perhaps, when I return (especially since I haven't left Denver once since moving here), I'll find that I missed Denver and am excited to come back. Will I call it home? Will I call Chicago home as I leave?

When will I find that place called home?



"There's only one thing on my mind
searching boxes underneath the counter,
on a chance that on a tape I'd find...
a song for someone who needs somewhere to long for.

Homesick.
Because I no longer know where home is."

Writen in 2007, but desperately needed as a reminder now.

Why I Write

I.

I write because of words like cacophony and cornucopia, for evaporate and elaborate and illusion. I write because of trick words like knock, knit and knot, for trick letters like C and K, for count and call. I write for rules: for I before E except after C and Q is almost always followed by U. I write for there and their and they’re. I write because of words like grit and grind, for gut and glory—words I can feel in the back of my throat. For words that dance on my tongue like evolution, alliteration, and allegory. I write for the words that make my lips murmur, words that call for their joining, for summer and magic, monkey and mayhem. I write because the words on the page wind their way through my ears and mouth and fingers and demand to be let out.

II.

I write because my skirt once blew over my head on the streets of New York City, for pulling a Marilyn Monroe, with uglier underwear. I write because of four year old Lahu children calling me farang bababobo, crazy foreigner. For turning a Lacrosse field into a mud slip-in-slide, for fall trees that look like they’re on fire, for drunken roommates falling down the stairs. I write because of the way it feels to say goodbye, forever, to people who feel like family. I write because I held my dog in my arms as the vet gave him a shot and he died. I write because a man once held me down and silenced my words. I write because sometimes it’s the only way I can remember.

III.

I write because I’m afraid I’ll be alone forever. I write to make marks on my own world, marks I’ll see forever. I write the things I cannot say, the things I don’t want to hear out loud. I write because I’m afraid that if I don’t put my thoughts, my images, on paper they’ll evaporate as though they never existed. I write because someone has to connect with my words, even if that someone is only me ten years from now. I write because I fear that if I don’t I’ll poison my body. I write because I am afraid that one day all I’ll have left is a pen and paper and the ability to write.