I got a chance to explore my surroundings a little yesterday, which you can read about here if you want, and I've got to tell you...
I feel like I'm waiting for the other shoe to drop.
I mean, I wasn't expecting to hate it here, and I wasn't expecting to love it either. But I feel so...ebullient, I guess, that I keep waiting for it change, for something bad to happen.
I feel so comfortable here, in a state where I know no one, even more than I did in any of the houses we lived in on the beach. And not even that, I feel excited about things. I've never been one to get excited about new things, instead feeling a general anxiety stemming from my unreasonable shyness. But I feel different somehow, almost reckless in a way, going out of my way to talk to strangers, driving down streets I'm not familiar with (a big step considering my complete lack of directional skills), and having a generally adventuresome outlook on things.
Also, I feel this first-love type of fluttering every time I think about writing here. This is the atmosphere I need, and I'm anxious to get started. The air itself seems to be filled with words just waiting for me to snatch them away and stick them to my paper. I feel like good things are going to happen.
But amidst all this joyousness, there is an underlying sense of waiting. A little voice in my head whispering "moderation, Ali, moderation". Because, while I am an intrinsically optimistic person, I feel like it's just too good to be true. It doesn't seem right that I should leave my home, my friends, my family, in a time of complete economic fuckary and feel so free, so unfettered from any unhappiness about my situation.
For now though, I'm going to enjoy it, and everything else that makes me smile about this place; like the way shadows of hawks flying over us stretch and shrink as they move from hill to hollow to tree trunk, circling high above on drafts of warm air rising from the mountains, rarely flapping a wing.