Re-entry

Yes, I travelled five days, picked up my special passenger in Halifax, and crossed on the overnight ferry, to present our entrance papers (!) on the Newfoundland side Tuesday morning.

Four hours of driving and a slim grocery shop later (there wasn’t room for more in the car), we pulled up at our house, where we haven’t been for two years.

How does it feel to be back? Our friends ask. Or alternately, How does it feel to be home?

And how it felt was like we weren’t all here. Like we were arriving in stages—packages delivered out of order, and with important parts missing.

The first night, over drinks with friends I described myself as “25% here”. Then yesterday afternoon with another of my nearest and dearest, I said I was “at 50.”

Why oh why, does it always take so long for all the parts of me to catch up?

Why do I fool myself into thinking that I’ll take deep breaths instantly, and immediately go to work with ease?

Instead, I’ve been doing what I always do in the hours after arrival. Opening drawers expecting certain things and finding other things that I’d forgotten I ever put there. Stumbling between what I’ve left and what I’ve brought with me—this time.

But yesterday evening, with our gracious friends (and double neighbours—here and in Hamilton) at their familiar table, eating local fish, and cherries from the tree outside their door, I realized I was truly here.

At breakfast this morning, Evangeline and I worked side-by-side on our projects at our kitchen table (which has been with the house longer than we have), and then she went to hack her way through the weeds to pick the fruit from our own cherry tree.

I opened my drafts. I muddled. I breathed.

This is today, at 100%.