Tomorrow is Yesterday, my dear.

I am here.

a hand is waving in front of my face,

“this is our stop, we’re getting off the train.”

my heart skips a beat or four, and I shuffle jerkily, grabbing all of my belongings as quickly as my eyes can find them— backpack, phone, wallet, passport, rail pass— crap, I dropped my pen— I don’t have a free hand to get that strand of hair out of my eyes and I can feel one of my earbuds is slipping— move move move—

where was I? my thoughts are all gone.

The train breathes another weary sigh and down the tracks it goes, on to the next dozen-hundred stations.

I breathe a weary sigh with it, glad that my stint is over, and also hoping that if I left something this time, it wasn’t too important.

“…and I don’t know, it’s whatever, though… do you know what I’m saying?”

and now I am in the living room from way before— the ceiling fan is blasting, the TV is a low background chatter, and I readjust my pillow and blanket and fallen-asleep-arm— and I am finally hearing again the voice coming from the other couch. I know the voice well, even though I was lost for a moment and couldn’t hear it telling me what its speaker did yesterday or what our dinner plans were going to be tonight. I’ve known that voice and I’ve missed it and now I’ve neglected it. again.

I’ve always been someone to get lost in thought— as many others self-proclaim— a “daydreamer,” a true Pisces, some would say. Horoscopes are kinda weird, but I dig them, I guess.

It has always been a trademark of mine, forgetfulness; some degree of confusion, of not paying attention, is a near-inescapable part of my personality, of my thought-space, and even my identity, perhaps. Writing on sticky-notes and putting them above doorknobs because I know I won’t remember that trash day is tomorrow or that I should’ve printed that form two and a half weeks ago— so, seriously, don’t forget it. A sentence that trails off, followed by a I have no idea where I was going with that… I’m so sorry but it’s definitely gone, and that happens at least thrice between my waking and returning to sleep, regularly.

I think about moments standing in the cold sand of a beach on a dark night and hearing the thummm, crash of the sleeping ocean, or laying on top of a car hood in the middle of a dirt road in a cotton field at 3 am as friends’ voices drift across the quiet frost, moments where the stars expand across the entire continent of solemn black sky— and no matter which angle you try and view them, the harder you stare at them, the more the stars dance away. You have to look at their twinkling from the corners of your eyes to see them better, those elusive little devils.

And my thoughts— about my time in Europe, about everything that has just happened and everything that will— are up there just the same, swirling and twirling, flashing, and their fluorescence breaks apart at the tiniest current of air stirred by my fingertips when I try to reach out and grasp hold of any one of them.

When we were crossing the Atlantic from Belgium to home, we flew for nine hours. Give or take. I couldn’t really tell you for certain, because at that point I hadn’t slept for forty-eight hours and the times between my unconsciousness and my wakefulness happen to be a very smooshed memory-pancake. I can tell you though, I was knocked out completely and very contentedly before the wheels of that plane ever left the runway.

But on our descent, when the stifling Georgia humidity was just a mere fifteen minutes away, I pulled my phone out and started frantically typing into my notes app. It all hit me in a frantic rush, what was happening. Where I was. What was ending and approaching— all at once.

I wrote:

Are my experiences memories already, really? Days ago is weeks ago, and now the months are all gone. The days have ticked down,

three,

two,

done.

And I look inside my feelings now to find that nothing’s changed.

But from there I continued, and I wrote about the roller coaster that the trip most certainly was.

So imagine with me for a moment that you are riding one. You’ve waited and waited and now you’re at the front of the line— awkward movements getting into the seat, hear the hydraulics release and now you’re locked in and you’re ready to go, the sun is so bright and you’re jittery, you’re so jittery and you wonder if the people on the other side of the gate still waiting in line can hear your heartbeat.

And in negative four seconds flat, the hill is ticking and you can hear the chain click click clicking, and the sun is so much brighter and your whole body is just waiting for the top, the anticipation hurts— caution: do not ride if you meet any requirements on the warning signs that always get bypassed when you first enter the line, but oh well— you’re already here.

The first hill of scream-inducing, stomach-heaving excitement— that first sky high, dive-toward-the-ground-as-you-stare-straight-at-it— is nothing short of exhilarating, and stressful, and just flat out crazy. And now you’re making it along the glorious ride in which you’re smiling and you’re shouting and your eyes can’t take in how fast everything is happening— but the trees and the people down below waiting in lines and milling about are just seconds, just brief glimpses of moments, and then they’re gone. And then comes the part of the ride where your body relaxes its tension— only for a single second— and you realize that soon enough, the end of the thrill will be approaching. Still you’re sailing, another corkscrew here or there, another dip and an unforeseen dive, and then the dock with the end of the track materializes from absolutely nowhere— your breath is squeezed right out of you as the ride heaves to a stop, and you are thrust into the seat straps and you suck in oxygen as the hydraulics that have held you fast— that you’ve been gripping so tight in those knuckles turned white— hiss with your release. You tumble out, hair a frenzy and face wind-blasted, not sure if you’re smiling or if your wobbly legs can hold you up or if you’ve been breathing the last handful of minutes at all.

And now, you are here.

Same. 

The initial rush was truly unlike any other. Blurs of sights and smells, buzzing languages I had never heard. Puzzling airport and street signs I can’t read, wow, that’s new. And wow, look at this nutella-covered waffle— my life is great, and wow, I’m learning so much and seeing so much and my brain is alive—

I could get used to this.

Stepping onto a plane (having never before flown, mind you) and stepping off onto another continent, following the line of backpacks walking down the sidewalk (and don’t wander away, whatever you do) while you’re craning your neck to see around each new corner, realize you’ve lost your laptop (yikes that was a doozy, flip back to chapter one for more info if you haven’t read about that already), and then realize you are now one little ant in the colony of the “facility,” your new shared living quarters with people you’ve never seen but are now sleeping and eating right next to, all of you squished into your brand new home away from home— right next to a Chinese restaurant whose owners speak French, but not English. Welcome!

That first rush of sensory information— I’m in Europe, what?! How do I do things, do I have all of my belongings— is this my stop? What are all of these buildings, where I am I, and HOW on earth am I looking at this right now— gave way to more twists and turns and learning curves as the car rushed down, up and over its railed pathway. It was exhilarating, and I was surviving off a diet of excitement. Of newness. Exuberance. Some days, the crinkle at the corners of my mouth ached from how hard I had been smiling, and my mind was dizzy from the spectacles. From the wonder of it all.

I loved being in museums. They were a break from the calamity of traveling, a quiet, moody relaxation where my mind could run free and roll across the letters on the plaques beneath some of the world’s most beautiful marvels. I loved waking up and realizing I was in a whole new place with a whole new day ahead of me, and feeling a surge of curiosity to see how its course would go. I loved being joked with about my accent, about being an American and sharing stories with fellow English-speakers, and I loved hearing their lives— of waiters, Airbnb hosts, of strangers and other travelers, too. I loved seeing children in airports and on trains and holding their mother’s hands on the sidewalk, and I loved thinking about how close we all are, no matter where or how far.

And there were dips. Some minor and laughable, others simply gut-wrenching. There were unending days of physical, mental, social exhaustion. Oh, the days of stress, where my hair became unbearably greasy from constantly running my hands through it, when our faces would droop and our hearts would falter and our spirits fade. The reality of it, the trueness behind the sunshine-pictures. Days where debit cards don’t work, days when you know you are being taken advantage of because you are an English-speaking and confused American, and days when trains (or worse, planes) don’t arrive— on time or simply at all. Days where nothing you say is the right thing, where thoughts are completely lost in translation and drift into the air and you close your mouth in frustration because, quite simply, nothing works. And when you let your mind wander away long enough, you can see the faces of your loved ones away at home. Gazing back, staring at you in the reflection on a train window, mouthing “I love you” silently, and only salty tears that touch the corners of your lips can suffice for your reply.

And while staring out of that window and watching the scenes rush past, the trees and the people and the fingerprints all rolled into one, you realize: I am in Europe. I am on another continent. I am experiencing blessings in the flesh— these gifts, they feel tangible. I am talking to God in new ways. I am worshipping Him sitting in a service with a language I do not know, seeing for the first time— being totally knocked to the ground by the realization of— just how universal and transcendent he really is. He understands me, no matter what my words are, no matter how different the words from the mouth of the person next to me are. He hears us both equally. He speaks languages of the heart. And you think about it, and listen to your heartbeat while you gaze upwards, locked in awe, one that only exists right then and there. An awe that makes the world stand completely still, no matter if you are standing on the centuries-old floor of a cathedral, or if you are sitting on the dusty floor of a broom closet.

There were corkscrews, flips and thrills— the kind that jerk you sharply to one side and pop your neck, that leave you disoriented, the kind you can’t see coming.

Your sight limited not only because you’re strapped into a roller coaster and it is impossible to see around the next bend, but you can’t see around the next bend because the Creator designed our lives perfectly that way.

And those corkscrews— those days of misfires in your travel plans, of conversations that come from nowhere but that stay forever— they transform the ride.

They give it character.

They give me, and you, and each of us character.

Oh, the days of smiles. The days of core-aching laughter, jokes on the sidewalk and uplifting, I’m-here-for-you-always hugs, of burned-in memories that we couldn’t hold closer no matter how hard we try, the days where we realize just how close a group of strangers can become. The afternoons when the sun is beaming down and bounces off the teeth and the freckles lighting up happy faces, of sharing bottles of water that everyone had to pitch in to afford, of rolling down green and grassy hills, and of bumping backpacks and carrying flowers, carrying refreshed hearts, and knowing that beauty is so much farther beyond the physical— so much more. The days we learn what a bond really means, whether that day was easy or not (and especially if not). Those days of solidified joy, that we also cannot see coming, just as any other.

A hand waves in front of my face, and I hug that friend— whom I now know as family— goodbye.

The ride came to an abrupt halt. One we knew was coming, but couldn’t fully anticipate— and end that materialized and pushed all of us forward, into a past life, into a new future. And walking through the Hartsfield-Jackson Atlanta Airport, I was reeling. My forgetfulness was already seizing its opportunity to whisk my memories away, and I’ve been struggling to hold on tight ever since.

My little leather journal is worn and rugged and seven pages are left. The rest are filled with glimpses, smiles, tears, and semicolons. And I will carry it—and them— as far and as long as I can.

Our bags were so much heavier when we came back home, weighing in extra poundage made up of pricey souvenirs and invaluable life experience.

I cannot speak for everyone in regards to experience, because no two people know experience the same. However, anyone you know or have known that has been on this trip— who has ridden this rollercoaster— is not returning to you the same person they were when they left. The changing that this incredible journey fires you through is inevitable.

But for the better, I would say. I certainly say so for myself.

And more on that later.

I breathe in— a sigh of deep relief, but a sigh with an ever-so-slight-edge. It is a bittersweet landing indeed, for there is a new presence, a new feeling of longing for a place (for many places, and for many people) that will now have a part of me with them, a part I can’t take back to make myself whole again.

But maybe that— the leaving of pieces behind and being forever unable to collect them all again— is, in all of its golden irony, what actually makes us whole.

“Hey, can you hear me? Are you still there?” out of the phone speaker.

Oh, yes.

I am here.

I am there, but I am here. I have brought it with me, and forever it will stay.

I explore my thoughts and I will let them dance and watch them grow.

I anticipate what the coming adventures will teach me next. And I will learn them knowing, at least a little bit better, who God is.

And with that, I bear gratitude.

And all I can think, in this stretching-into-infinity moment before the wheels of the plane touch down to the runway, is oh,

what a life.