Scared of what's behind, and what's before.

I am sitting at my computer at 4 o'clock in the morning, wondering how to put the last several months into words that are comprehensible to anyone besides me.

I don't know if I can, but I'll try.

We are faced with decisions along every step of our lives. Some are easy. Some are more difficult. Many are satisfying. Quite a few more hurt to make. A handful are impossible. It feels, right now, like this one is.

I am reaching the end of my master's program, and I have to decide which step to take next. To leave, or to stay. That sounds overly dramatic, yes, but here is the context. It seems as though, for the past decade, every two years-- wherever I've been and whatever I've been doing.--I've up and left, right around the 24-month mark. Moved on to the next chapter, adventure, challenge. The next new group of people to meet and eventually call friends, and the next new place to explore and eventually call home,... until I move on again. But the past several months here have cemented in my brain an emotion that's not quite the familiar restlessness and not quite dread of once again picking up and going elsewhere. I've realized that above everything else, I'm simply tired.

I'm tired of being constantly in motion, of the semi-nomadic life. All I want is to be in one place for a little longer. I never thought that place would be here. In fact, at the beginning of my Arizona experience, almost two years ago, I'd thought I wouldn't be able to wait to go. I'd assumed that once I had a new, fancy degree in hand, the desert would lose its appeal and I'd be craving summers in Minneapolis and non-manmade lakes and... yes, even snow... again.

But something is grounding me here. I don't know how... I am dirt poor, unemployed, and a thousand miles away from my central support system of friends and family. I live in a state where legislators would rather create an official Tea Party license plate than help terminally ill people on welfare receive life-saving organ transplants. I am in a part of the country where the temperature will reach a scalding 120 degrees a few short months from now, and I have only a bicycle to get me around in it.

And yet, I am happy.

Too much of life goes by without reflection, without our introspective analysis on why or how we've felt the way we do about certain elements of it. I don't want the past year to slip away into oblivion, especially in the coming months, when I actually have to make this decision and suffer the consequences.

Snapshots: I've danced on sidewalks on Mill Avenue, to the beat of African drum circles. I've laughed with people so hard we've cried, and cried so hard we've laughed. I've sat in my backyard long into the night, under the orange tree and the stars, smoking cigarettes and listening to my iPod, with no thoughts at all besides contentment. I spent a night reveling in incredible music... along with 10,000+ concert attendees... but from a 4-story rooftop. I've spent many more nights listening to incredible local music that gets under your skin so deeply you don't even wonder how you find yourself humming it under your breath, weeks later. I've wandered around Tempe with good company, shooting the shit until 5 in the morning. More than once. I've learned the political practices of this state enough to where I desperately want to stay and work for positive change, because I feel invested in what happens to people here who can't. I connected with a person who made me feel beautiful and alive, for the first time in a long time. I've started making my own music again, along with people who crave that glorious creative outlet as much as I do, if not more.

I am constantly learning new things, about myself, how I've always viewed the world and my relationships with people who I like, who I don't as much, who I love, who I wish loved me... these long-held notions are constantly challenged, and I find my old self being broken apart and built up again into someone a little different, a little stronger, more self-aware and self-assured. It's invigorating, to know that you have the capability and courage to allow this change, this full exploration of yourself.

I'm not done. I'm not ready to go yet, but there is a lingering doubt as to whether circumstances will allow me to stay. I know what I want to do, but the economy and job market seem to have other plans right now. I know what I should do, to get by, but I've recently discovered I am abysmal at waiting tables and, for some reason, am not quite employable at Starbucks. Job-hunting is a terrible dance, and I am failing at it. After a rather uninspiring semester, I'm questioning every scholarly choice I've made, all over again. I am running out of options, and it breaks my heart that, just when I finally find a place where I could consider taking a break from my tumultuous madcap journey of the past ten years and resting for a while longer, I might be forced to leave it.

There is no easy answer here. I know I have some time left, to find something--ANYTHING--that will give me money in exchange for some kind of time and labor commitment. The fear is already there, however. I can't fight with human resources departments who don't want to hire me, or credit card bills that can't be paid, or loan officers who hover menacingly around waiting for my graduation date. It's too much to take on at one time, without a paycheck (or even with one from Starbucks), and I'm tired. But enough. This post was not supposed to be my pity party or a plea for charity, or even sympathy. It's about a choice that might end up not being a choice, exactly. At least I know when the time comes to make that "choice," regardless of the outcome, I will understand what it was that I really wanted.


Mumford & Sons, 'After The Storm' (from Sigh No More)