The adventure is not over, even though it is.

I've been comfortably nesting in Okemos since Wednesday afternoon, when mom picked me up from the Detroit airport. It seems at once entirely strange and completely natural to be home again. Strange, because it's always strange to come home. Each summer, I know fewer and fewer people in this place. They graduate from high school, or move to another town, or their faces slip from my memory and I can't tell if that's my old math teacher or just a doppelganger. At the same time, it is so very comforting to be surrounded by the familiar. My mind sighs with relief. It no longer has to be "on" at every second, analyzing and judging and experiencing. I know what to expect, so the thinking part of my brain can take the backseat to the part that controls rote memory and habit. I can walk down the street and let my thoughts wander anywhere, let my feet just go.


My first meal did indeed involve pesto--very magnanimous of mom, since the kitchen was a construction zone without a sink or stove. How did she do it? Magic. I think I've spent roughly 60% of my time back eating and sleeping. It seems a little ridiculous, since I ate plenty in Uganda and I wasn't even there long enough to really justify a strong craving for my favorite things. Even so, I think that taste, like scent, is one of the senses most connected to memory. So that bowl of Mac 'n' cheese I just devoured was not simply a warm pile of artificial cheesy goodness; it was a small reminder of my childhood and sunny early afternoons spent playing outside. Same with cereal, and oreos, and all the other things my taste buds have enjoyed since my return. And smells... I forgot about the scent of a warm Michigan summer afternoon. It's intoxicating. Soft and green and lazy and tender. I wish I could make it into a blanket and wrap myself up with it in the winter.

And the people, the most important part of feeling at home. Needless to say, it was wonderful to get that first hug from each member of my family. If I'm still a little grudging about the fact that my brother is now a LOT taller than me, I'm at least grateful for it when it comes to the bear hugs of which he is capable. My friends from high school are all now officially adults, in the American beverage-enjoying sense of the word, so we had a reunion at a beverage-serving venue in East Lansing. I can't believe we're at this point. We were just obnoxious sophomores in high school, wreaking havoc in the library during lunchtime. Now we're ordering drinks and thinking about the real world. It's exciting and solemn and laughable and unnerving all at once. But that's another post entirely, and one that almost anyone has written or will write. It's growing up.

(Non-sequitur: I'm writing this on the front porch, and the mosquitos are OUT OF CONTROL. Far worse here than in Uganda. I'm getting eaten alive. But I'm sick of air conditioning, so here we are.)

So, the weird parts about being back. I guess the biggest one is also the very fact that comforted me: nothing has changed. Everything is exactly as I left it. I, on the other hand, feel like I've changed a lot. Actually, no, changed isn't the right word. I think I've learned to look at things differently, to regard myself and the world from a better vantage point. I still don't understand exactly how the perspective has changed; that will come with time. For now, I'm only certain that something is different. Better, I think. But even as I recognize differences within myself, my surroundings have not changed. Sometimes it's hard to believe I ever went anywhere at all, a thought that's both astounding and rather scary. Being oblivious is a luxury, and a dangerous one at that. I know I can't be conscious of every problem in every part of the world at once- I'd go crazy, get way depressed, be unable to function. But I also know that I have to think about at least a few of these uncomfortable truths. And here, in my most comfortable place, where grocery store shelves are heavy and lawns are well-manicured, it is far too easy to forget. I'm trying not to, even as I slip back into my beloved routines. That's why I have to keep writing. And talking, and listening.

I said before that Uganda had started to feel like home to me. I miss it now; I missed it as soon as I left the ground on my first flight, when I recounted my summer to my neighbor and he asked if I'd go back. I said yes, and I truly believe it. It's hard to realize the true impact of a place until you're not there anymore, but I could tell Uganda was going to be a lasting influence even before I left. I miss the people, first of all. Sister and Dennis and Charles and Monica and Joan and all of my other wonderful UMU friends. Will I ever see them again? I dearly hope so. But when, and how? It's difficult to think about. I miss St. Francis Secondary School, the students and teachers and quirks and frustrations. I miss yelling "Jabale, Nyabo!" when I pass a woman in her front yard. I miss the campfire smell and the hills. I miss Uganda.

But I'm ecstatic to be home. There is nothing like that feeling of snuggling on your couch after an absence and feeling utterly, absolutely at home. Relaxed. Like the comfort of a warm bath and a soft bed, multiplied by a hug from your dad, plus a large, chocolatey brownie. Mmmmmm. Home.

So I'm conflicted. What else is new? But it's not necessarily a bad thing. It's just a gentle tug at the edge of my mind, a reminder not to be complacent, because there are many more wonderful things out there, and also many things that need fixing. It's an invitation to keep thinking. And, I think, it's the thing that will take me back to Uganda some day. For now, though, I'm back home. And damn, it's good to be here.

Sibling love. 

Goodbye for now, my friends.