Homesick

 I didn't know that homesickness was a physical feeling. I've never really had a chance to be homesick before. Now, sitting in a dim, wood-paneled bedroom in a two hundred-year-old farmhouse in North Carolina, I know exactly what homesickness feels like: A roiling nausea, an uncontrollable trembling, a lightheadedness that blots my vision and makes my ears feel full of cotton.

My host is pleasant and kind. But he is not my family, and this is not my house; the views outside the windows are not my views; the sounds–the too-close traffic, and the wind chimes on the upper story porch outside my room that worked their tintinnabulations into my dreams all night long–are not my sounds; the smells–old wood, old paper, old dinners, with now and then a burst of something sweet and floral–are not my smells. The food–Dominos pizza and squishy white bread and margarine–is not my food. What wouldn't I give to be back in Maryland right now! But, as my mother reminded me, homesickness is "just a feeling". Today, when I'm writing this, it's Sunday. Tomorrow our farm work begins, and I'm hoping that the rhythms of labor and leisure will help me to settle in.

(I realized that I forgot my USB adaptor and camera charge cord, so although I will try to take lots of pictures, most of them will be from my phone, and I won't be able to upload any pictures from my camera  until I get home. The quality of my phone camera isn't as great, but there will still be pictures!)

Easily the first thing you might notice about my host, Nick, is the hole at the base of his throat; he sticks the middle finger of his left hand into this hole in order to speak, and even then his voice comes out in a burbling growl. A couple years ago he was diagnosed with throat cancer and underwent a laryngectomy. He coughs through his throat, instead of his mouth, holding up a washcloth to his neck, and can't speak above the barest whisper unless his finger is plugging that hole in his neck. He loves to talk, though, and to laugh–in the first half hour of our acquaintance, he pointed out the sausage tree in the backyard, which had sprouted after he buried a dead pig there. (Just kidding: It's a loofah vine entwined in the branches of a regular tree, but I was too polite and confused to point out that sausages don't grow on trees.)

Nick also loves to read; his home is crammed with stacks and piles and towers of books, many of them bought at library sales. There are books in the entryway, books in the living room, books on the landing. He hasn't read all of them (I asked), but he has read a great many.

He has beautiful blue eyes and a boyish smile. He used to be Christian, but now he's a Taoist. He has no compunctions about swearing, and does it often and matter-of-factly. 

I spent this afternoon sitting on the upstairs porch, reading Harry Potter. Nick has already given me three books to read, and once I finish The Sorcerer's Stone I'll start on Jonathan Livingston Seagull, a novel that Nick told me he lends to all his woofers; he has four copies.

I thought I was so ready to live away from home, but is anyone ever really quite ready, when the time comes? At some time or another we will find ourselves lost, lonely, alone–if not in fact, at least in spirit. Today I'm grateful for these: My best friend's rambling email sent at 3am to make me feel her nearness, even though she's six states away; my sister's text waiting for me when I turned on my phone at 6:40; my dad's voice on the phone; my church family, seen on Zoom. I might feel alone, but I'm not–not at all.