So, I'm here. In Provo. It has been just over three months, and life has hit a routine. Class, work, homework, sleep. And it's fine. But I would be lying if I didn't say that there wasn't a certain level of monotony.
This move has been incredibly, unanticipatedly difficult. Crazy difficult. I left DC with a perfect brightness of hope, expecting to drive across the country and just slip into this life that was all set up just for me. And then I arrived.
To an empty house and a friendless life. Those first few nights were hard and lonely, but I saw these empty rooms brimming with the potential that they held. I saw them filled with friends and dinner parties, with Christmas trees and twinkle lights, with laughter and memories.
Days and weeks ticked by. Then, three days ago I stood beneath the swirling falling leaves and my breath caught in my chest when I realized that three months had past. When did that happen?
When I look back at those first days, I find smiles and moments of pause. My optimism as I began this new life brought me and continues to bring me closer to my Savior. Still, I continue to struggle with the fact that this is not what I thought it would be.
I still find myself wondering why I'm here; what purpose this might eventually serve. I continue to be nostalgic for my friends who live so far away, and I fret about how I can pull my new friends closer around me to form a circle of love, trust, stability, reliance, mutual care and respect.
As it is, I am in a grey area. I'm learning to swim gracefully in this limbo, instead of clumsily dog-paddling to stay afloat. The most gracious gift I have been given is an absolutely firm knowledge that my current state of swimming is divinely inspired, even if it is totally exhausting.
And sometimes I look at the sky and think to myself, "this knowledge isn't a gift; it's a life raft."
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