The twenty-fifth day

Has it really only been twenty-five days?

It feels just like a lifetime and no time at all. Like the longest day in the world- a day that won't end- yet seems to fly by.

How does time do this to us? And what does it mean.

I wake up, and I think. I miss home. I miss comfort. I live in Haiti. Ok.

Ok, what does that mean?

And to be honest with you,

I don't know.
I'm not sure.

But I am here. And I feel here.

I feel very present. I love this place.

It's a good feeling, a comforting feeling. To be at ease with where you are, when you are.

That is not to say I understand. And it isn't to say that I feel competent or correct. That I feel like I've made 'the' right choice.

But I do know I've made 'a' right choice- for me- right now.

Which brings me back to time. Is it real? Should it be?

Surely, things like coming and going, passing away and moving, graduating and quitting, divorce, birth, new acquaintances.

They matter, and certainly they mark distances between happenings. We are growing older, no one knows that more than this prematurely aged hypochondriac- but what I'm finding is less concrete than all that.

My life, the order of things, my time in this place. It will never be anyone else's. and theirs will not be mine.

So for right now. In this moment.

I am here.

Ok.