Dear —
I absolutely agree with you. It’s hard to believe I’ve been here for only three weeks. Time feels like a contradiction though, because it feels like I just got off that train two days ago, yet my body is aware of a little routine I’ve already sunken into. Working from home will do that. Routine speaks to the familiar, as if many more than twenty-one days have passed. That said, my consciousness is still catching up.
When we spoke the other day, you asked but said as a statement, “just taking it all in, huh.” Yes. The air still feels new. Still, I have to admit that as strange as it may sound, I’m having a hard time with your question. How is it so far? It’s deceptively difficult to answer because it’s a question that requires my whole being to answer, and all of me hasn’t landed yet.
In any new experience, the easy things pop up first. In a few words, I like it here. New drips with excitement, and rightfully so: Every street is lush and green. Trees gnarl and grow scoliotic. Canopies of fern-laced oak trees provide shade for almost every street. Sidewalks buckle from bulky roots pushing against concrete. The atmosphere is casual, the people are generous of heart and spirit. Walking down the street, you wave hello or stop and have a little chat, no dashing by or avoiding eye contact.
New sights, smells, sounds, tastes, and textures electrify all of my senses. Recent and old histories fill my curious cup. Cityscapes fresh for exploration tempt my eyes, and I long to see the wetlands and swamps. I also can’t say enough how giddy my notebook has been, noticing new accents, and in some cases, even a new lexicon.
But newness is often coupled with otherness. In this space of everything so fresh, what we call new we are also calling different. Not in the sense of different being wrong, but in the sense of introductions, beginnings, and firsts. Will I like every new thing I encounter? I don’t expect to. But that’s not to be decided while experiencing everything in a raw state.
I laugh at how, in many a casual moment, someone eventually points out that I’m not from here. I am at once an observer and the observed. Anonymity isn’t as much of an option as I thought it would be.
Through newness, I’ve also locked eyes with discomfort. Taking slow, meandering walks is lovely, but it doesn’t take long before I stop to read a sign on a tall iron fence that tells me this lovingly preserved home belonged to plantation owners for generations. In another neighborhood, I see vacant houses and blight from pre- and post-Katrina. There is a tragic history here that I can’t ignore.
So when you asked me that question, I had a jumble of words and emotions, but no sentences. All of this has to land somewhere. Eventually it will. But for now, it’s all floating like dandelion spores, and I’m okay with that.
