adjusting

Blue skies, white clouds, pine trees. Hot, humid. A hodgepodge of old and new buildings and ideologies. A fountain. Parking spaces with a name on each one. Would I fit in here? Could this strangeness become familiar, or even home?

Life is a bit erratic, like a stew (gumbo?) in which all the ingredients are disparate and you're not quite sure if the total effect is brilliant or off-putting.

It's late October in Louisiana. In northern terms, the weather is like early September, vacillating between Indian summer and morning chills. The trees haven't changed colors -- they're just looking anemic. There's a fresh blanket of dead pine on everything. Little bunches of needles fall like rain, and cause a wince when they hit your head.

Fresh apple cider is not available in stores.

Life here progresses at a different pace. Work gets done in fits and starts; change is slow. It's maddening when I'm highly-motivated and efficient, but nice when I'm tired. It's frustrating to not be able to work as well as I think I could -- there is so much to be done, and so much I'm capable of contributing. But I don't know the politics here, and I'm not my own boss. I can only do the work laid out for me as well as possible, and take advantage of the opportunities I have to stretch my legs once in a while.

Chitchat is an integral part of culture here. Everyone's warm and hospitable, at least on a surface level. "Sir" and "Ma'am" are standard. Sometimes meetings run long because we've heard a detailed history of someone's angina. Sometimes the person in the checkout line wants to know what skin care line you use. Sometimes the stylist at the salon wants to know whether you've considered surgery. But sometimes your new Bible study bakes you a cake when they find out you spent your birthday alone in a dorm room.

Life has settled down. I have a paycheck, a routine, a book club. The sunsets are gorgeous but come earlier every night; I know where to go to watch them. I've figured out which Healthy Choice meals I prefer at lunch time, and how long the library microwave takes to heat water for tea. I leave a jacket on the back of my chair at work. I know how far to turn the shower knobs to get the water to the right temperature. I found a coffee shop that's open past 9.

It's not quite home, but there's a little bit of home in the flowers my mom sends me sometimes. It's in the pictures around my room, and in the pages of my Bible. It's in the flavor of my tea, and the mug that someone gave me. I'm desperately lonely, but I'm not alone. It's not home yet, but I am hopeful.