So, here I am. Back in Muncie.
I can’t say it hasn’t been exactly what I expected it to be, which is a little disappointing. I was sort of hoping for some magical thing to happen as soon as I got here to make me fall in love with the wonder that is Muncie all over again.
But I don’t think there ever was a time when I was in love with this place.
The best part of coming home, apart from seeing my friends, has been the mowing. I dearly love to mow. Give me my iPod and two stretching acres of overgrown land, and I’ll mow for hours. Back and forth, back and forth, grass in my eyes, in my hair, sweat dripping down my back from the heat…it’s bliss, believe me.
It’s been a week since I last posted. This is mainly because I was trying to hold out until my parents hooked up the wireless router and I could use my laptop (this decrepit PC I’m working on just really isn’t cutting it), but I couldn’t resist. I’ve never really been the sort of writer who wrote because of the therapeutic benefits of pouring one’s soul into a journal. To me, that’s ridiculous, because what sort of comfort does a piece of paper offer? I think this is why I’ve never been much of a successful journaler.
I’d much rather write when I know somebody, anybody, is going to read. This is why I can never stay away from blogging for too long. It gives the writing a certain amount of worth, once it’s read. Without acknowledgement, words remain silent and meaningless–who cares to think about that which they don’t know exists?
But writing for others is a risk, because the opinions and emotions I express will be handled in different ways by different people. That is why I write. I love when my writing evokes a response–any type of response, positive or negative, although I do prefer the former–in people, because it proves just how powerful my words truly are.
This summer, I hope to do a lot of writing. Maybe not as much blogging, because I really do need to concentrate on bigger works that have been in progress for far too long. And maybe, coming home to slow, quiet, sleeping Muncie was exactly what I needed to get motivated.
It is with deepest regret that I now inform you of my impending departure from your windy streets.
You have been a dear friend these last eight months, welcoming me with love and adventure and startling discovery as you did. I am grateful to you for the many things I learned this year.
I want you to know that I’m going to miss you.
I’m going to miss your dark alleyways, with their decrepit dumpsters stacked like crooked teeth, and your streets, with the trash tornadoes twisting at the curb, with squealing taxis and gutsy cyclists. I’m going to miss Lake Michigan, your heart and soul, and the beach where I lounged in your sand. I’ll miss your urgency, your need to GO, and the way your people move. I’ll miss your transportation systems and their unannounced delays, your constant, heavy smell of smoke and exhaust and grime. I’m going to miss my little pocket on State Street, my favorite corners of campus, the cozy coffee shops on side streets.
I’m going to miss the moments here where I knew just exactly who I was and what I want my life to mean. I’m going to miss the incessant inspiration, the need to nearly always write and feel. I’m going to miss falling in love. I’m going to miss falling into friendships. I’m going to miss fresh faces and sidewalk strangers. I’m going to miss who I am when I’m there with you.
I’m going to miss the really late nights of long talks under blankets and the early coffee-clutching classes, trying hard to stay awake. I’m going to miss blown-out umbrellas in the rain and creamy snow globe scenes that bring waterlogged boots and pinched-pink cheeks. I’m going to miss afternoon naps on my cornflower blue comforter, with the city right outside my blinds wanting so much attention. I’m going to miss writing in the park, lying in the sun on the first days of spring warmth, stealing glances at the blue stretching lake and wishing I could really reach so far. I’m going to miss clavicle kisses and painting experiments on the floor of my dorm room. I’m really, really going to miss you.
I’ll be back, of course, and hopefully the discoveries will be new and different then.
Goodbye for now,
Naomi
Daggggggg–two posts in one day.
Anyway-
Lately, I have had a lot of decisions to make. Big ones, too. Not easy everyday decisions. Even THOSE get me all twisted up in my own thoughts and wants and needs.
For instance, recently, Shaun and I were planning a date night for ourselves. I was sick of the slimy fatty fried-ness of UC caf food, and Shaun was sick of cooking, so eating out was an obvious choice of activity for the evening.
“So…where should we eat?” Shaun asked.
“Nope, not deciding,” I refused.
“Well, I don’t really care where we eat,” Shaun said. “So, it’s up to you.”
“Okay, but as I recall, I made the last decision, so now it’s your turn.”
“No, no, no,” Shaun answered, laughing. “I’ve made like the last fifty decisions.”
“So make another one!” I suggested. “You KNOW I hate this!”
If you’ve ever had to make a decision involving me, or asked me to make one, you probably know how completely incompetent I am at dealing with choices. I don’t know why this is. I mean, I’m not the sort of person to let others walk all over me, nor am I satisfied with sitting silent with my own opinions. I like to have a say, I like to matter.
Maybe it’s because I’m a perfectionist. In school, in writing, in relationships, and, I suppose, even with decisions, I struggle to accept less than perfection. It makes me feel like I’m settling. The knowledge that there’s a possibility that there could be something out there that’s better-suited for me drives me crazy!
I just wish I could make a decision and rest in the faith of it.
Why don’t I trust my own judgment?
Any big decision I’ve ever made (i.e., where to go to college, what to major in, where to live), and even some small ones, cause my thoughts to start stewing in every obtainable outcome, good or bad. Even deciding what to wear on a daily basis becomes a multi-minute ordeal with me standing in front of my closet, mentally combining colors and cuts with possible accessories, never forgetting to take into consideration the weather, seasonal palette of hues, how my outfit will be perceived, and whether I should wear my hair curly or straight, up or down…
Yes, I know.
Insane, hmm?
Do you ever have moments of terrifyingly wonderful clarity?
When you realize that who you are and where you are and what you’re living for are all working in perfect tandem? When you find happiness in the simplest of coincidences, when you discover an easy love in the face of a friend, when you lie down at night and find the most overwhelming security in the knowledge that there’s a whole new empty day ahead of you?
I have these moments a lot, here in Chicago.
But now, stretched out in my bed on a Sunday afternoon, watching an episode of Friends I’ve seen twenty times, the sound of rain tickling a window I’ve get less than a week to sleep under…I’m FLIPPING out.
I just don’t want to leave.
Well, some of me does. I DO miss the Muncie-exclusives: family, friends, the front porch, Puerta.
But.
I just feel like I am a completely different person than when I left last August. I find happiness in new things, hold new passions, love new people. Leaving this place that has taught me so much about life, about myself, is going to be SO hard.
And I’m not sure how this new Naomi is going to fit in a place where the old Naomi once thrived, you know? I’m so much happier here, with this life here. I don’t know what going home is going to do to all this.
Dag.
I mean, it’s only for the summer. I’ll be moving into my Chicago apartment less than three months from now, and the way time has been passing lately, it will feel like weeks.
But still.
I’ve been having doubts.
Twisting, diving doubts that send my mind roiling with the reality that my dreams are going to be very difficult to reach. Doubts that strike me with paralyzing panic–the type that trigger my heart to stamping in my chest and make my breaths shallow and slow.
I mean, what if I never finish a book? And what if it never gets published? And even if it does, what if it’s the crap kind of book that no one reads, that you find on the 80%-off shelf at Barnes and Noble?
If I never publish a book, I’ll have to find another career. Something like editing or copyrighting…something at least related to the writing degree I’ll procure after four years of pounding out thousands and thousands of pages of my best work, never knowing if the carpal tunnel will be worth it or not.
Writing is just so uncertain. Unstable. And I’m not someone who deals well with uncertainty. As much as I’d like to be a free-willed flying individual, I’m not. I like to know how my works today will benefit me in the future. I like to feel as if I am constantly building a life for myself, working and learning everyday so I can somehow seize success and know I earned it. I don’t like to waste time. I need plans and lists. I need purpose!
My purpose as a writer is to write, and simply that. To write about love, life, faith, and the things in this world that let me know I’m alive. To write for us all as we search and pray and fail and seize life as the beautiful adventure it is.
But, what if people don’t want to read? What if I have nothing new to say? What if, after pouring the entirety of my passions into my work, I still end up selling bagels at Panera?
Oh, for faith…
