Homesick

One year ago I was living in Prague.

One year ago I was studying and practicing my art in the cracks and the corners of the city of my dreams. I was part of a community of artists and explorers from all of the world. I was a loner. I woke up every morning with half a plan, and a heart open to adventure. I wandered with the intention of getting lost, and I could not do it. My feet and my chest and my fingers and my head always led me right back to where I’d started. I was in search of unique experience and spontaneous inspiration, always. Senses alert to stimulus, always. Body and mind open to impulse, always. Animal. Alone.

Funny how forgetting creeps in. And then, how the smallest thing can spark a flood of memory.

Reading back over my Prague Blog from last year’s visit. Reading my handwritten notebook of thoughts from the lead-up to my first visit. Things I can’t believe I’ve forgotten.

A dream I had, from which I woke up thinking, clearly, the words, “Ja jsem kralovna.” I am a queen.

Sitting in the kitchen of my hostel on Castle Hill, having arrived home from Divoka Sarka just as the rain began to pour, and listening to the water and feeling scared and safe.

My refusal to follow marked paths, opting for the most treacherous Cliffside treks to any destination. The subsequent leaves and pollen in my hair, the bug bites, the perpetually sore muscles.

I took a walk today without a destination in mind (something I used to do often, almost nightly, in the city). It was lightly raining, but still warm. I could close my eyes and smell Petrin Hill, Vysehrad, Vitkov. The streets of West Philly lack cobblestones, but with enough force of nostalgia, I could feel the Czech ground beneath my feet. Prague is in my bones, in my body.

A carved rock in the woods on Petrin Hill. Nearly natural graffiti. 

One year ago, I was on the edge of a cliff. The “real world” was about to arrive. I chose a month in fairy-tale limbo before making the transition. This year I’ve seen heartache, success, overwork, new love, and the beginnings of several important relationships. I lived by myself. I paid my bills (for the most part) and kept myself healthy (for the most part). I am getting by as an adult, somehow. I’ve grown up in a lot of ways.

But I ache for the child who floats above the ground, who climbs towers and sleeps on tiny islands, who wanders and reads and scribbles and sings.

And everything with half a plan.

Half a plan and a full heart.

Full of faith and absolute trust.

Trusting that my half a plan will start me moving, and the city will ensure that I never stop. The city will take me where I’m meant to go.

Home is a place of faith.

It is time to go home.