Running, I am slow. After moving to a new region, I find I am slower still. New surroundings, more road, still adjusting.
I miss my home.
To be sure, there are wonderful things about this move.
I have my family, including two dogs, for whom this move was made. I have neighbors who all seem to be terrific people. I once again have a yard to putter around in. The area around my home is also very pretty.
There is no wild.
My spaces are limited; tamed trails trapped by property and roadways, with nothing to fear except humans, whom I rarely encountered before. Oddly, I fear them more than wild dogs, rock slides, and boar (can you blame me?).
Without the element of wild, there’s a beauty missing.
I don’t feel I belong here. I am trying but I do not yet feel connected.
The same goes for my professional life.
There, in my former home, I was connected. It was hard work: intellectually, emotionally, and sometimes even physically challenging.
My life’s history had meaning there. People saw it and connected.
Here, people see the history and don’t connect. They can’t fit me into the right boxes.
Overqualified here, title not quite right there. Certified, yes, but not exactly in this state’s way or with that exact stamp.
Interviews happen with comments like “Impressive,” and “Well, you certainly have a lot of experience.” These, I have come to realize, are code for “You don’t fit.”
Perhaps the only box I fit is the one labeled “Other”?
Maybe so. Maybe so.
The loss I feel…
The loss, I feel…
(as you may have guessed, I’ve moved. Same country, new continent. It has not yet been a month.)