Earlier tonight I thought about being home again.

I don’t find myself thinking of being home often, instead I mostly think about how much I’m enjoying this trip and how I hope the back half feels as unhurried and appreciable as the front did. But, tonight I found myself thinking about sitting in the backyard or in the driveway, enjoying the weather.

In my heart I know that I’ve chosen to be fully absorbed with this trip not only because I truly want to be present for it, which I most certainly do, but also because being absorbed helps me not think on the large scary unresolved and unknown thing waiting back home. Namely, what in God’s name will I do with my career thus far in the “after.” I’ve actually been proud at how I’ve not let the thought eat at me, but the fact still stands that I’ll be coming back to limbo.

We were in an art museum earlier, the exhibit was on impressionism, and I loved reading the little printed biographies pasted-up alongside each piece. One that stuck with me was about an artist who, prior to becoming an artist, was working as a banker. Once, when loaning money to an artist, he took possession of the artist’s paints and brushes as collateral. When the artist never came round to collect them, the banker began tinkering. And thus his latent passion, and considerable talent, was revealed.

The job I left, the thing I’ve been perfecting for nineteen years, the only real job I’ve ever had, the job I felt I was really good at, is finished. Done. Over. A first-world problem to be sure, as I’m still employed, but still something that’s awfully scary to me. Going back to nothing in particular, trying to find the next thing, restarting, rebuilding…

So I think I’m sort of on the lookout for paints and brushes. I mean, scary is scary is scary, right?


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