It was the best of times...

The problem with literary phrases is that sometimes you wish they were true. "You can never go home again," is one that always echoes through my mind. Probably because it's a cliche and that is in the nature of cliches.

I went "home" this weekend, and on the drive out there I could feel my insides unhook, untangle, and I could begin to breathe. I didn't realize I was holding my breath. Just like when you discover you've fallen in love. A long awaited exhale you didn't know you were waiting for. This feeling of relief brought along an anxiety -- this is a place I've moved away from, and that I have to continue to pull myself away from as I grow and expand and as those people who make it home leave (in one way or another).

I'm grateful for the arms around my shoulder, the acceptance that I felt, the knowledge that though change happens in my life, there are those who knew me before who accept it along with me.

I hope that I can build a new home. And I mourn the slow loss of this old.