Time to go

I’m at gate 53. There are high-school teenage boys to my right on their electronic devices, a lady with a bag containing a small dog to my left, and a couple of Hispanic women speaking Spanish behind me. Oh, and an older lady in a wheelchair and what looks like her daughter just rolled up (literally) to the seat next to me.

We’re waiting to fly.

I’m not sure what their stories are — I haven’t really spoken to anyone at the airport except the check-in baggage lady and the employee at Nature’s Table.

I’m surprisingly not nervous. I hadn’t slept as well as I did last night in about two weeks.

Sadness isn’t really present, either. There have been a lot of goodbyes over the past week, a lot of “I know you’re going to have so much fun,” a lot of really sweet words about my character that would make anyone feel like a million bucks, and yet it all comes with a lightness and not a heaviness.

I don’t actually know how to feel. I’m excited, but like my friend Jill reminded me, what I’m doing — moving, even for a few months, to a foreign country — will change things. It’ll change me.

And I don’t know what that all entails. I can’t pretend to guess all the plot points that’ll come about; actually, I don’t want to. Even experiencing everything leading up to this moment has been a gift — something I couldn’t have orchestrated. It’s been muddled, confusing, and haphazard, and that’s probably what’s making this so great.

I’m ready. Not really prepared, but I’m ready.

Clear eyes, full heart.

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