On Changes and Constants

It wasn't until a few weeks ago, when someone pointed it out to me, that I realized how proud I am of what's happening in my life.
Although I know my job is temporary, I love it, and I'm good at it. The other day I asked my supervisor if there were any areas in which I need improvement, and he leaned back in his chair considering before he declared that he couldn't think of a thing except my lack of experience.
I applied to four grad schools and was surprised to be accepted to all of them, and so in the fall I will be pursuing a Masters at the Boston College Graduate School of Social Work. This has me positively beaming. It feels good to be wanted, and BC is a great school But mostly, I think it's the first thing I've ever done truly on my own, and it's going swimmingly.
Between when work gets out for the summer in June, and when I start school in September, I will be working at Camp Triumph, which will be a stupendous learning experience, as well as a great item on my resume.
I will also be spending a week in Rome with Ashley; going Jess and Rob's wedding, the first of my friends to get married; and starting to pester Rachel about the planning of her wedding next summer. I hope to go to Edgartown every weekend.
I’m practicing yoga, trying to be organized (ha!), and working at being honest and up front with others and myself.

For about a week, I was flying high on the recognition of all these wonderful things. But just because I’m proud of my life doesn’t mean it’s all butterflies and sunshine.
I still live with my parents in the suburbs, for instance, which is cost effective but also socially limiting. I don’t have many friends, and in fact, the person I’m closest too is moving away soon.
There is no one here that I can call in the middle of the night, or cry in front of, or snuggle up next to. There isn’t even anyone I could go out dancing with. I miss those things.
I’m also struggling with being a very-nearly-grown-up-person. Paying for BC is daunting, my car needs a bundle of work, I want to move out. All those things are about money, but they’re also about learning new skills and making decisions. I’m trying not to let that kind of problem get in the way of what needs to be, or should be done.

Yet, all those things are negligible. I can cope with them, because everything else is so good and because I know they will work out with time.
But there is always the lurking desire for more. The Ache. The need to be a part of something. The longed for inspiration and creativity. The wish for a healthier spirit.
These are the things I lay awake and cry about at night.
I think my heart might implode if I don’t find something to fill it up. I ask “Why can’t I connect with anything?!” I despair that I don’t wake up every morning soaring.

I find myself thinking: maybe I won’t go to BC. Maybe I’ll stay in Italy and learn to cook. Maybe I’ll shave my head and start fresh. Maybe I’ve made some huge mistakes and should try to undo them. Maybe I should donate all my processions to charity. Maybe I should become a vegan. Maybe I should meditate. Maybe I should become a certified yoga instructor. Maybe I should move someplace far away. Maybe I should be a professional artist.
Maybe I should change my life, because this one clearly isn’t working.

But I don’t do those things. I don’t think any of them will really help. Instead I go to the book store, I read poetry, I eat pasta, I drink tea, I call a friend, I pick up my camera, I take the dogs for a long walk. I remind myself that it’s normal to feel this way, even when things are good, because we ever stopped yearning we would never move forward. I remind myself that I’m lucky. I remind myself that it’s okay.