So this morning when I woke up to blueberry pancakes served with huckleberry syrup brought from Sandpoint, Idaho and then was asked if I was feeling up for a kayaking adventure, I perked up immediately. We voyaged across the channel from straight out of the backyard off of the dock and it was like once I was out of my bed and in the sunshine, I started to come back to life again. Halfway into our trip, suddenly I spotted a white cloud underneath our kayak and to my astonishment, it was a giant jellyfish. A giant jellyfish that in a matter of seconds made its way to the surface of the ocean right in front of me. I don't know why but that jellyfish set my little sad spirits free. It sort of floated there while we paddled back and forth, observing it, and I let time sort of stop in my mind to hang on to the moment. Idaho and Montana are quite obviously landlocked states, but it wasn't about feeling appreciative of the chance to see this jellyfish I could never see at home, but rather, it was about feeling welcomed and connected to my environment. Which, obviously, the jellyfish itself didn't do, but rather than running about a city seeing its many sights whose attractions belong to the memories of thousands of people, that sole jellyfish belonged to just me. It was uniquely mine. It hung around there for a few seconds as we stared in silence, just long enough so that when it left, we were already paddling away, too, getting what we both wanted.
Thank you, jellyfish. I think if you could talk, you would have told me to relax. Missing home, even if it's the one place you know you can't live in again, is just fine. As is calling your mom at 20 years old. So is missing your friends. So is admitting that place isn't everything, the people you love is a big part of what makes a home. And it's okay to feel those things. Everything is okay, as long as you just keep going the way you're meant to go and come back up to the surface for air every now and then when you need it.