I have come to realize that missing things and places is a verity to which I could set my life: the hollow ache in my stomach, the constant hunger for a familiar panorama, the comfort of knowing I belong somewhere. I miss Orcas. I miss my yurt, seeing the sun set over Waldron Island every evening for five weeks, riding my bike to the Turtleback Mountain trailhead while listening to the same Matt Nathanson song on repeat 32 times. I miss my treks into Eastsound for food and water, spending hours in the packing room with the world's most adorable 8-year-old girl who pretended the giant roll of bubble wrap was a killer whale. I miss my evening runs, engaging in staring contests with deer, and seeing a pair of bald eagles fly past me every morning during breakfast. I miss everything I complained about when that was all I had: the impatient customers who didn't understand that they couldn't get the glaze combination they wanted on the teapot they wanted because the glaze belonged to one potter while the teapot to another; being, for the most part, completely alone for half of my summer; not being able to travel farther than my bike would take me.


I would give anything to have that summer back. Anything. I have never felt so independent, so free, so confident that most things I need in my life I can provide for myself. I am now positive that the ache I felt for my life on Orcas was the pain of knowing that living like that was not my reality. It was an idealization, a glimpse of what I want for myself forever. So while I don't think I will ever stop longing for those freezing nights on the bench that smelled like wet dog, loving a place so much that you're broken without it is infinitely better than never having loved at all.