A Car on a Street in a Town

Rain patters onto the window of my car and streaks down in grayish hues, racing towards the tiny crevice where glass meets steel. Each drop is reflected back on to my outstretched arm, and it creates a beautiful design that no tattoo could compare to. I could sit there and watch the shifting patterns all day. They all seem to have their own personalities; the big fat ones that languor, the tiny orbs that look like polka dots, the long streaks that deign to merge with other drops of lesser caliber. It’s something I wouldn’t imagine seeing on a rainy commute home.

Home. What an interesting word. There’s been plenty of speculation around the topic. You know, the whole thing about finding out that maybe sometimes home isn’t a where but a who. Or that home is wherever you are, regardless of who or what is around. I’ve never really been sure how to define home; many people embrace it as their culture, or their family. For me, I don’t really think that peanut butter and jelly cuts it as a delicacy, and my family history is… interesting, to say the least. So how do I know what home is when I’ve never really discovered it in the first place?

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My answer to that: adventure, exploration, risk. Part of the reason I’m participating in Global Citizen Year is an attempt to fix my past mistakes and failures, but there’s a much bigger reason, too. It’s bigger than I can fathom logically. There’s just a little voice in the back of mind that keeps whispering do it, do it, do it. And for that reason I can only assume that the events that have aligned perfectly for this experience to become a reality are a part of a much bigger plan than I can ever hope to understand. And perhaps that plan involves relying on faith that everything will be okay, through both the upswings of excitement and valleys of terror.

I mean, any way you look at it, this is crazy. Crazy amazing and crazy scary. Sometimes it feels like I’m just blindly leaping off a bridge and hoping there’s a safety net below me. Sometimes it feels like I’m drawing a target on my chest for the shooting gallery. Sometimes it feels like I’m one of those raindrops, racing for home but not knowing exactly where it is. But everytime it feels like I’m daring to make a change, daring to enjoy life because of its brevity, daring to become the woman I’ve always wanted to be. And then I know this journey is going to be what it is going to be but it will also be crazy beautiful.

My reverie is broken when I hear the honk of the cars behind me, eager to get on with their lives and out of the rain. Road rage is foreign to me, but for some reason today this intrusion irritates me. If I could, I would shout at them to slow down, take it easy, smell the flowers (or in this case, the petrichor.) I would throw my door open and dare them to make a wish, make a promise, make a change. But I don’t. I shift back into drive, make my left turn, and head down the slick, muted street that leads to home. The street that leads to a little town near Cuenca, a family I haven’t met yet, and an adventure waiting to unfold.