I've got over the major phase of homesickness, I think. That means I feel more smug than sad when people tell me they've enjoyed something I learned to cook from my mother. Mwahahaha.
Well, not really, but you know . . .
And people did enjoy the cranberry sauce. For which I am thankful.
I miss the feeling of sleepy and contented usefulness. That is one of my favourite bits of holidays--along with the secret feeling of being loved and not having to talk about it. And fireplace warmth on toes.
And there is really none of that this Thanksgiving.
Don't get me wrong; I was in the company of very caring people who probably don't realise just how much we appreciate (or ought to appreciate) how much they try to love each other. But they are not familiar, and our relationships are still in the phase of policy and agreeableness. I'm afraid I still feel fairly awkward. Perhaps it is also that they don't yet know how I like my nerdy self and don't play social games well. I live inside my skin, even more so now.
I'm beginning to see the differences in the way my fambly loves and the way other people love, too. It is so odd to be so vulnerable, and yet so confident. And then when I feel hurt (which is due to the voluntary vulnerability) it isn't the part of me that loves that is hurt. It is a very odd process that seems to constantly keep me off-balance, afraid, and compelled. There are so many people that need loved . . .
And once again I wish I didn't have to be involved as a face to my cause. It is an awful thing to seem.