Last month, I called in my personal days, stuffed a cooler full with fish and berries, and flew home for the first time in eight months. I had no idea how much I missed it until the plane landed.
Running around western Alaska since June, learning and working and generally having an amazing time, I haven’t exactly felt stricken by homesickness. There’s no time for it.
Living in Nome and traveling in the Bering Strait Region, I’m hyperaware of all the things I have yet to experience in this special place. So that’s what I’m focused on.
But going home meant getting some time away from the nagging thoughts that I haven’t really experienced a dance festival or gotten out on the sea ice. That I only understand a slight fraction of what it means to live here. And that I only have so long to do it all.
All that low-level panic melted away, and I just got to spend time with my family and friends. It was wonderful. There was a lot of good food and conversation, some minor-league hockey and theatergoing, and plenty of time to just feel at home.
