It’s no secret that I bear little love for Missouri (Misery, my loved ones like to say, and they’re only half-joking).
I know that my cold feelings are at least partially unfair. It’s not the state’s fault, not really. It’s just that last time we were here, in 2021, I spiraled into a terrible depression and lost one of the people I loved most in the world and became semi-convinced that God despised me.
Okay, let me back up a bit.
The first time we met with our now-priest, Father Michael, he pointed to John's chest and said, "In your heart, you are already Orthodox. Your head just has to catch up."
I think I liked the enneagram because it helped me put my own flaws and unhealthy tendencies into words. There were things I’d never been able to articulate about myself before, and in those burgeoning years of young adulthood, it felt powerful to admit some of the icky stuff: I’m anxious; I think I might die if I get a C in class; I internalize shame over things I know are small in my head but feel heavy in my heart.
Emma, you might be thinking, these all sound like the kinds of things you should bring up in therapy.
You, dear reader, are correct.
John and I recently celebrated three months of marriage! (By "celebrated," I mostly mean that we noticed the date late in the evening, said, "wow! three months!" and then moved on). But it really is quite a milestone—a quarter of a year, already in the rearview mirror. They have been wonderful, novel, fast-paced, laugh-filled, tear-soaked months.
On July 16, John & I woke early, finished packing our belongings into our car, and hit the road for Fort Leonard Wood, Missouri.
Well—sort of. As with all plans, things went sideways immediately. Our plan was to hit the road by 10:30am after spending a leisurely, meaningful breakfast with our parents (minus my dad, who was working that day and to whom we'd said our goodbyes the night before). John's mom Martina made her signature German pancakes; my mom brought yummy donuts. Fresh coffee greeted us the moment we woke. All portents of a good morning.
But moving is crazy.
Hello dear friends. It’s been a little while, hasn’t it? The last post on this blog is from September of 2020—nearly a year ago. I certainly haven’t lacked words, but the longer I went without saying anything, the more there was to say, and the more daunting the task of putting pen to paper became.
When I went into work this afternoon, nothing was out of the ordinary. But now, three hours later, smoke has filled the sky’s expanse, the sunset painting it peachy, and it’s unclear whether it’s from Washington in the north, California in the south, or an Oregon town to the east of us. They’re all burning.
Before moving back down to college, I went on a hunt for my SD cards. The thing is, I have a carrier for them. It's small, padded, with multiple pouches for multiple cards. I keep it in my camera bag, right next to my charger. It's all perfectly logical. Of course, my SD cards are… Continue reading warsaw in retrospect
Quarantine is a strange experience. The days blur together, time moves slowly, and there's plenty of opportunity for reflection. And here's the thing: I've had a lot of time to be sorry for myself. I've wept and mourned the loss of Rome. I've reminisced and railed against the unfairness of it all. And now? I'm moving on.
On March 4th, I awoke at 3:30 am, gave tearful hugs to my roommates, and took an early-morning taxi from my apartment in Trastevere to Rome's Fiumicino airport. From there, I had a brief flight to London's Heathrow airport, where I purchased a cup of soup and what might have been the worst cappuccino I've… Continue reading leaving rome / rome pt. 4
