About one month out from my flight, I rabidly wrote about my upcoming adventure in what I can only describe as a lucky charms fueled fever-dream:
“Wow. So, I’m not even on the plane, but I recently got my housing assignment for Galway and it seems ridiculous but it’s a sunny day and in one month I’m going to be on the Emerald Isle itself! Well, that or somewhere over the mid-Atlantic, severely jet-lagged and dehydrated. Either way, I’ll be heading to a country which recently became the first to sell off its investments in fossil fuel companies. A magical, green place where people are happy and jolly and just legalized abortion and have an openly gay prime minister.
This is, yikes, I’m just very excited. For the first time in a long time I’m allowing myself to think about what this semester could be and not what it might be. Does that make any sense? I’m allowing myself to daydream in rolling hills and fiddle tunes as opposed to dreading what could go wrong.
Maybe I should be a little more worried about this, but I’ve got Baba O’Reilly coursing through my veins and—The Who is Irish right? Nope. Not at all. Anyways… I’m just ready. Ready to be pulled into the great green beyond.”
I relay all that now—that idealistic expectation of the journey to come written at a safe distance from the reality of saying goodbye to my home here—for scale. This is the largest move I’ve ever made. I don’t want to make light of it but I also don’t want to terrify myself, because that is an entirely accurate description of getting inside an aluminum tube and launching myself 41,000 feet closer to the sun until I come back down in a rain-soaked corner of the world, 4,461 miles away from the people I know and love. Terrifying.
But those are also just numbers, and in-keeping with my aggressive support for all things artistic and un-quantifiable, I trust people more. I trust in the people I’m going to meet who are just as terrified as me. I trust in my own ability to make a home in a strange new place.