Homesickness
At home, we lived in our bathing suits during the summer, and stood dripping at the door every evening during the school year. Swimming was like singing: we did it frequently and we had fun doing it. I can still remember the way my right foot always curved over the corner of the boat dock just before I dove into the coffee black water.
Because we lived twenty miles away from the river port city of Manaus, we saw huge ships coming and going nearly every day. I remember floating on my back at sunset when the water was still and smooth. Underwater, I heard the distant churning and whirring of a ship's motor. I sat up, and looked downriver. There, cutting across the water was a ship loaded with boxes and crates. Where it was from did not matter. What mattered was how big the waves were going to be when they reached our side of the river. When I was younger, I was sometimes afraid of the waves. I thought that the waves would keep coming and I would not be strong enough to stay afloat.
Homesickness is like that ship. Life will feel still and peaceful, like the river does at sunset. Then something happens. It does not matter what it is: a look, the sound of rain, the smell of banana bread, a phrase from a song, or the way someone says my name. Something cuts through the calm and quiet and I am flooded with wave upon wave of memory. When that happens, calm is not the word to describe me. I laugh hysterically, or go quiet for seemingly no reason. Inside, I sometimes ache for home. Often, I cannot even explain how I feel, and I have to get away from people so that I don't make a spectacle of myself.
When I was younger, though, I learned not to be afraid of waves. I learned how to move with them so that I could stay afloat. I learned not to fight them. In a way it is the same with homesickness. I can never plan on when it will hit me because it always hits when I least expect it. I am learning to deal with it, though. I find places where I can go if I need to be alone and talk to God. I play my favorite pieces over and over again on the piano. I write down the memories I have. I walk or bike until I am too tired to do anything but sleep. I do not fight the memories, and I do not push them back down. Why not? you may ask. If it hurts, wouldn't I want to try and forget?
No, because having homesickness means I have a home.
Because we lived twenty miles away from the river port city of Manaus, we saw huge ships coming and going nearly every day. I remember floating on my back at sunset when the water was still and smooth. Underwater, I heard the distant churning and whirring of a ship's motor. I sat up, and looked downriver. There, cutting across the water was a ship loaded with boxes and crates. Where it was from did not matter. What mattered was how big the waves were going to be when they reached our side of the river. When I was younger, I was sometimes afraid of the waves. I thought that the waves would keep coming and I would not be strong enough to stay afloat.
Homesickness is like that ship. Life will feel still and peaceful, like the river does at sunset. Then something happens. It does not matter what it is: a look, the sound of rain, the smell of banana bread, a phrase from a song, or the way someone says my name. Something cuts through the calm and quiet and I am flooded with wave upon wave of memory. When that happens, calm is not the word to describe me. I laugh hysterically, or go quiet for seemingly no reason. Inside, I sometimes ache for home. Often, I cannot even explain how I feel, and I have to get away from people so that I don't make a spectacle of myself.
When I was younger, though, I learned not to be afraid of waves. I learned how to move with them so that I could stay afloat. I learned not to fight them. In a way it is the same with homesickness. I can never plan on when it will hit me because it always hits when I least expect it. I am learning to deal with it, though. I find places where I can go if I need to be alone and talk to God. I play my favorite pieces over and over again on the piano. I write down the memories I have. I walk or bike until I am too tired to do anything but sleep. I do not fight the memories, and I do not push them back down. Why not? you may ask. If it hurts, wouldn't I want to try and forget?
No, because having homesickness means I have a home.
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