Lost

When I wake up in a hotel room, I'm never confused about where I am. My eyes do not open in surprise or momentary confusion. I go to sleep in Chicago, therefore I wake up in Chicago. Got it.

Not so once I'm back home in my own bed. The first rise to consciousness feels very much like I over-medicated on cough syrup while undergoing shock therapy. The room swims in and out of focus. I look warily over at Matt, not one hundred percent sure why a long freckle-faced man is snoring lightly beside me.  I glance toward the door to see, no, that's not a door at all, but rather a dresser, and frankly one I'm unfamiliar with. And then, in a dizzying rush, the world rights itself, and I shake my head at my own weirdness as I totter off to the bathroom.

Two weeks ago, I quit my job. In a self-congratulatory move, I gave two weeks' notice and offered to help my replacement settle in. On my last day, I brought the kids cupcakes frosted in wild cat colors, and I wandered around the class chatting with them. I left room 256 chock full of teaching supplies and decor, taking with me only my printer and a baggie of Crystal Light. 

My decision was absolutely right. In the moment my principal and I discussed my reasons for leaving, my certainty dropped all the way down to the bottom of the well where my soul resides. Ensuing conversations rippled smoothly. Colleagues and students were supportive and understanding. Smiles, well wishes, a hug or two ... and then me rushing down the stairs and away away away from that place.

Alas, the world has not yet righted itself. 

In all fairness to my unsettled state, I'm living in a house that just last night acquired a bathroom sink. And, too, I'm hopped up on a battery of pharmaceuticals. Every time I swallow, my left ear protests. I pop another Tylenol Sinus Extreme coated tablet and pray the antibiotics will kill whatever evil has taken up residence in my upper respiratory system.

When we lived in Hawaii, Matt and I often hiked Diamond Head. The only way to the summit was through a hot, dimly lit, dusty tunnel, the lighting faint and at knee level. We made it to the top every time, but never without head bangs and elbow scrapes.

And so it is. The lighting has been sufficient enough to steer me away from a couple of job opportunities, but not so bright as to clarify much beyond unpacking a box here and there, meeting a friend for coffee, taking a walk to the bakery. I shower. I cook. I sleep. I look for holiness in dusting our grandfather clock. Sometimes I find it. 

I know many things. God is God, and I am not. Family first. Stay present. Matt.

What is next is murky at best. This tunnel makes me feel spacey and ginger-footed.

Yet I am not lost.