Tuesday, May 21, 2013

i’m coming back home


 I know just why you could not
Come along with me
This was not your dream,
But you always believed in me
--Michael Bublé, Home


The first thing that felt like home at Notre Dame was not the Golden Dome
And it wasn't the Grotto.
It wasn't all my favorite spots around the lakes.
It was a patch of violets.

I stopped to examine the patch of purple flowers that offered a promise--the promise that there were pieces of our old selves waiting to be refashioned and grafted into our new selves.

I smiled as I passed the window of my favorite little icebox of a room.
I smiled as I stopped to befriend a curious little squirrel, who wondered if my ID card was food.
I smiled as I inhaled the beautiful scent of candles burning at the Grotto.
It smelled like burnt dresses and wax burning on a rainy November night.
That was a homecoming kind of smell.

"If you really wanna discover the secret of Notre Dame, visit that Grotto. There's something there; no, there's someone there. We call her Notre Dame."
--Timothy Cardinal Dolan

And the lighted candles and the violets became somehow caught up in the whole semester of walking along the sparkling Thames, and wandering through Hyde Park in the spring, and watching the lights of St. Peter's in Rome at night.
The different-colored adventures begin to bleed together in a violescent kaleidoscope of good-byes and hellos and see you laters and discoveries and delights and sorrows and joys and new places, and sights you never imagined and everything in between.
But right now, I'm raring to get on a plane that will take me to a new story.

People say you can't script friendships or romances or your life in general.
Of course you can't.
But once you discover the script, you just follow it.
Sometimes, where it leads you is a surprise.
But sometimes, it's not.
And sometimes, it's a sweet and strange mixture of both.
So off we go, my friends.
Next stop: Kolkata.
I'm going home.

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