Whenever I think of leaving this place I feel uneasy. Not necessarily because I want to stay – my problem appears to be regret that I did not properly enjoy the experience of living here. I spend most of my time in the house. I like the place. But I didn’t even finish unpacking until last week – and I never truly expected to be here longer than five years.
Tomorrow we fly to Barcelona, where Byron will present a paper and we will spend time with our friends from his field. Lucian will be there, and perhaps Satnam, along with some other Seattle friends, but we will see other people we only meet during the conferences because they are scattered all over the world. In the past when I’ve talked to these friends I have experienced a peevish jealousy because I wanted to be the kind of person who lives elsewhere.
Now that my wish has come true – in such a startling, abrupt, and amazing way – I am confused by the fact that everything seems so correct and appropriate. I haven’t had a moment of jumping up and down joy even though England was my childhood dream; if there had been a Make a Wish foundation during the cancer years I would have asked to go to the UK.
Instead of pure exhilaration I feel… vindicated and satisfied.
Maybe this is normal; I hope that it isn’t a sign of encroaching complacency.
Recently I heard from the publisher of my new anthology that the press is absolutely besotted with the work. They suggested no changes whatsoever to our final version. I know from the other anthology I’ve published, and talking to writer friends, that it is unheard of to have such a good relationship with a publisher. But I do not experience deep pleasure over this knowledge. I just think of course – at last.
Right now I feel sad to leave this place but happy to go to Cambridge. Which seems like an awfullly tepid response. This could just be the inevitable maturity of age.
Growing up can be so difficult.