Because this is worth saying again.

Hey.
I was thinking today about something. About you.
About what you've meant to me these past 21 years.
About the times I've sighed and cried and whined,
the times even you brought me to tears.
About punishments deserved and gifts given for free,
about the love that can come out over Gilmore Girls and Baked Ziti.
I thought about all you taught me, about honor, persistence, and good sense,
and all the things I hope still to learn as the distance between us grows less.
What you mean to me now is far different from
what a little girl needed, or a teenager thought.
More than home and comfort, food and shelter,
what I get from you I never would have sought.
You are part of the anchor that grounds me,
and what stitches the sails that let me fly free,
you are the spark to the light that shines on my future,
and the trail that leads to my memories.
But I've no flowers or chocolates to send you from here,
not even the hug and house cleaning I would give were I near.
So I find that all I can manage to say,
is I love you Mom, Happy Mother's Day.

Ouch.

Sometimes it sucks to see other people have it easy, have things fall into their hands. Sometimes it hurts to know you could have it too, if only you had put in the effort, made that extra push. Sometimes it wounds to know, to see, other people out there living your dream. Sometimes it smacks you right across the face and tells you to Get. On. With. It. Every new bestseller, every new publication, every new book signing, every knew random post about the latest amazing book some one has read--these things make me squirm.

Wednesday Evenings

My stomach is rumbling aggressively in response to the smell of onions, carrots and potatoes cooking on the stove. Add a can of tomatoes, water, and some bullions cubes and I might just have dinner. With one or two pieces of buttered toast, what could go wrong? It's wednesday, and I've spent the day not in repose. I woke up (albeit late, but hey, I'm on break) had my pot of coffee, played only a little video games, and then I got the doing itch. I got up, I paced. I walked out onto the balcony and breathed in the fresh air warmed by the sun that doesn't seem to understand that February is still winter, damnit! I leave the sliding door open all day, because the bugs aren't out yet and I don't want anything blocking the air and the sun. I cleaned up my room, which daily gets cluttered with the presence of two boys and all their computers. I vacuumed, lit new candles. I recently rearranged my room with pleasing results, reinstating my corner of candle and books. I pulled down Gianni's clothes from outside (he uses my washing machine) and hung up my own, ran another load. With my last cup of coffee I sewed a rip in a pair of jeans and watched an episode of Pirate of Dark Water, which recently "appeared" on my hard drive.

James showed up and I had someone to talk to, bop around with. I still wanted to do something, swirling around in my purple skirt, liking the feeling of being up and awake. I made dinner. It's stewing now. And I'm writing this. I wonder if my life ought to be more interesting. I was assaulted by monkeys a few days ago, does that count? I'm in Japan, this is a once in a lifetime opportunity! But that's the thing. I'm not here as a tourist, I'm not here to spend thousands of dollars to see the sights and do all the things you could do. I know some of the students who are. Samantha's family just arrived from France, here for I'm not sure how long. Her mother, father, and younger brother are all here, and she's showing them Japan. I can't even really afford to go see all the places I want to see, let alone have family come over to show them. I'm not a tourist, I'm trying to live here. I should probably be trying to get a job, but there aren't too many options for a foreigner not fluent in Japanese. But I don't mind so much. Even dirt poor, I'm happy, because I'm living here. I'm existing, even thriving, in a country worlds apart. And every day it teaches me something.

Some days it shows me the beauty of a city that is like a world on its own. The lifelines of trains that run back and forth, the faces of the people who walk on and off. The people who look up, stare at you for a moment, then their faces light up as they call 'Hero! How are you?' It is strange, to be instantly recognized as a foreigner. To have people say hello to you simply because they know you are not Japanese, and then assume you speak English, and just want to say something to you.

But most every day I learn something else. As I smell the air of spring and gaze at the stars at night, as I dream about my future, scary and looming as it is (only one more year of school!) something inside of me moves towards home. You might not know it, but I was once scared of traveling. I thought I might fall in love with some other land and want to move away there. I don't think I could have been more wrong. Day by day I want only to be home again. Not that I am not happy here, I am, I am very glad I'm here and that I stayed. I look forward to next semester and the places and people I will see and meet. But every day I know more steadily that it is not here my heart wishes to be. I look to my homecoming with wild joy, and the thought of familiar sights and smells and sounds and faces fills me not with longing but with comfort. I don't need to long for home, because I know where it is. I know I'm going back there. I will enjoy this place and all it can show me, but the most precious thing I've learned here is that Grantwood Ridge is where I want to be.

Saturday Mornings

Everyone's been wanting to hear more, see more, know more about my life and what I'm doing in Japan. I have not been a good updater, but then again come on, what did you expect of me? I will have more pictures posted on Facebook soon. But it is dark in my room, all the doors shut at six past noon on a Saturday. I'm sitting at the end of my bed drinking my second cup of coffee, chilly in pajamas because I haven't bothered getting dressed yet. I have class in two hours, have to leave in one. There is a pot of rice porridge on the stove, with sugar and cinnamon cooked in, that served as late night snack and breakfast. My eyes are dry and sore from this room, that is impenetrably dusty no matter how many times I vacuum. I love this wonderful stillness, because I am not doing anything but drinking and listening and writing. I hear the quiet breaths of Gianni, who has been periodically camping in my house since his internet disappeared, and who couldn't sleep last night and woke up with a frightful headache and sore eyes and won't come to class today. There is almost no food in the apartment, at least none that belongs to me. Gianni and I have been making a joint effort in the food category, because he has very little money and I don't like cooking that often. We have to go shopping tonight if we want another meal. I wonder how many people will be in class today, without Gianni, and I think with out one of the other adults. Perhaps it shall be just myself and Gibbs sensei; a treat both wonderful and a little intimidating.

But it's getting close to time for me to leave. If I want to pay for the train to class I need to go withdraw money on the way, and I'm still in pajamas. When I get home tonight there will be warm food and games and the company of friends. And perhaps, within less than a month this time, there will be a new post for any interested parties to read.