This is my third blog entry in as many days. It is that, more than anything else, which brings home to me just how crazily busy I have been over the last three weeks. Not that I didn't notice at the time, but I had planned it to be that way. Three manically busy weeks.
It was comical to explain it to the people at church this morning who, in true British fashion, asked me what the weather was like "back home." By the time I had explained to them that I had been to northern Illinois ("if you will go to the arctic" said Bernard) where the temperatures were well below freezing and it snowed and that the weather on Christmas day in Virginia was quite comfortable - we went for a walk in the park, their eyes were opening wide at the distances I had traveled in a mere three weeks. One gentleman remarked that it is hard to "get your head around" those kind of distances, and I nodded. I understand that now.
The truth is, I feel as if I have suddenly and violently slammed on the breaks, but the inertia is still carrying me forward. At first I was inclined to attribute this to the cultural difference - and I am sure there is some of that involved - but it is also the result of that jam-packed three weeks. I find myself wondering if it is as much the way I am when there (in the States) as it is the way things are there. It is telling to me that the one place I visited last month that I now think of wistfully is Mt. Tabor - the one place where I stopped for a day and just was.
One thing I immediately liked about being back was having no car. The chance to walk from place to place, the time to think along the journey, not just about the destination caused me to begin to sink back into a place of rest within myself even as I walked through Cardiff on New Year's day, burdened by luggage. Any place I go here requires more thought - where do I want to go? do I have the time to get there? - and less thought - no need to plan the route, just set out in that general direction, and pop in anywhere else you like along the way.
Perhaps it appeals to the 'P' part of my personality (for you Myers-Briggs-literate types). It is an easier, freer, less structured life, that yet offers familiarity and stability in the same roads, the same people and the same neighborhood week after week. It is a less scattered life - the places that I frequent and the people I care about are mostly within a few miles of my home - easily reachable by foot or, if that is a bit too far, by bus.
If I need to get back to the wider world, all I have to do is walk into town and catch a train. I don't have to worry if the car has enough fuel, or wonder what will happen if it breaks down, or be hyper conscious of the other crazy drivers on the road and what might happen to me if one of them is drunk or tired or just having a bad day. In a way I feel more independent without the car - but that could only be in a place where it is practical to get around without one - another reason I like it here.
That isn't to say it is perfect here, or that there are no pressures. Indeed my rest over the last two nights has been disturbed by nightmares, the kind I get trapped in and wake up feeling frightened of the dark. In church this morning, I wept, but even as the tears ran down my face I was conscious of the knowledge that I felt free do do it. No constraint, no fear. In some ways I suspect I am now feeling many things that I simply didn't take the time to acknowledge on that flying visit "back home."
But the question remains - why did I choose not to feel them while there? Why was I not "free" there? Why is it not safe there? Even if Wales is my home for the rest of my life, I need to eventually discover the answer to these questions: I begin to think it is vital for my self-understanding and identity.
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