I just walked through the door of my apartment building, smiled and took a deep, slow breath as I relaxed into the familiar sound and smell of home. In this case, it was the mixture of coffee, well-loved furniture, the dirt of potted plants, and the sounds of chatter and clinking coffee cups.
My feet are throbbing after a long day of standing, walking, climbing, and crouching - in heels - yet the layer of contentment is thick. It's interesting how the senses inform you that you're home while your thoughts are otherwise preoccupied. There is a particular view of Newberg that gives me the same feeling. As I drive down 99W through Sherwood, the crest of a hill meet a parting of trees, and the sight of the clean, small town pulls me back into the happiness of my life there. Oddly enough, ANY Starbucks can give me the same feeling! The green and white sign and atmosphere of efficiency mixed with urgency always amps up my productivity.
The feeling of home comes from different sights, sounds, smells, and memories, but they all share a similar impact: relaxing into a place that fits you.
I returned to Sias three and a half weeks ago and was immediately hurled into the classroom with no internet access and faulty technology. Days of late nights, early mornings, good food, (and cafeteria food), new friends, old friends, HUNDREDS of new students, misinformations, thousands of staff meetings, and one excessively enduring case of food poisoning haven't obscured the overriding feeling of "fit." This messy smoosh of experiences fits my memory of home, and I am happy.
A surprising perk to returning to the same place is hearing this over and over: "I'll never forget when..." Then I hear stories I forgot to remember. '
You gave me my first bao tse [breakfast food]...You turned on music next door, then sang and cleaned for hours...you gave me cleaning rags when I first arrived and couldn't find any - here do you want some?' Yes, of course I wanted them. It's interesting to hear what matters and what's memorable to other people. I've started referring to myself as a recycled teacher: I haven't returned year after year, but I was here a while ago, so I'm not exactly new either.
A curious difference is the absence of shock. I don't notice the split pants of toddlers, or when 3-4 people ride the same scooter. I don't feel uncomfortable checking my bag at the grocery store. I'm not surprised, flattered, or nervous when strangers take my picture. In a way, I'm free to simply enjoy all the aspects of life in China that I had to assimilate during my first stint here.
So I walk to class, drink bubble tea, watch butterflies the size of my hand flutter through the flowers, and relax in the familiar rhythm. Home in the senses.
