It feels weird to think that I’ll have lived in Japan for two years by the time July rolls around.

I was asked earlier today what I thought I’d miss once I left the island and returned to the States.

That’s a hard question to answer.

I think about the last couple of weeks and how I’ve felt like I’ve finally settled into life over here. But I know that the peace I feel comes from acknowledging that I’ll be leaving. There isn’t that pregnant pause of “what will I do next?” attached to the decision, even though there’s certainly that aspect waiting for me once I return to the States.

I’ll miss the nature. The bounty of hawks that swoop and soar— chasing crows and hunting insects as they dive bomb from the thermals overhead. I’ll miss the days with fun lessons and kids popping up to shout my name whenever I pass by a classroom. I’ll miss the cozy, orange-lit dimmer bulb that lights my nights as I lay on my too-thin futon and read fantasy books on my Kindle. I’ll miss the howl of the ocean winds as they wind up over the harbor forest and rattle the small sliding glass on my balcony door.

I’ll miss all these things— but not in the way I’ve missed others.

I came over here to learn more about myself. To spend time alone. I’ve excelled at that— certainly more than I thought I would. It wouldn’t be a stretch to say most of my time outside of school has been spent in my own company. I think that’s been important to the growth that’s come— and to what’s come after leaving here.

I’ve been able to recall things in a way that’s difficult to explain. The memories of the past don’t arrive through visual recollection. Instead, I’ve been visited by ghost fumes. The scents of things not here— from a friend's perfume, cold mountain air, spiced cider, and other things. It creeps up unbidden— like a dog waiting for an ear scratch. Doleful eyes looking at me— begging me to notice it. I can smell the brown-scented smelly marker that smelled like cinnamon. I can smell the first oils of the coffee beans from the silver bags holding pounds of Pike Place or Java Roast. I can smell the citrus Trader Joe’s body wash. Everything catapults a thousand memories into my mind as I see brief snippets of my life play out before me.

Some of being here has been remembering core parts of myself that I’d lost touch with. I think a large amount of that hid beneath a mountain of grief I had to sort through. Other parts have been learning what my core values are.

I didn’t realize I’d be such a hometown hero. More in that, I had thought I’d be able to disappear from Portland when I was younger, and it wouldn’t matter. That I’d start over across the world, and I wouldn’t ever want to come back. That hasn’t been the case.

But in this all, the noise of the emotions has been dimmed.

I still have my zero to a thousand energy moments. But the previous feelings of misunderstanding or immensity? Those don't hang around.

I don’t feel misunderstood— not when I’ve put effort into intentionally making myself understood to the loved ones in my life. And I’m certainly a stubborn fuck when it comes to that. I’ve heard so many horror stories of people lying on their deathbeds and issuing regrets of unspoken admiration and love— no, thank you. I try to make my appreciation known. Still, I’m human— so I know I don’t cover everything a hundred percent, but if being over here with all this time has taught me anything, it’s been to recognize the moments when you need to say the things that matter.

I like to look at the lines that compose people— seeing the symmetry and song that flows through someone. We’re each a symphony that static photos cannot catch. Words don’t do justice. Neither do poems, essays, videos, or anything beyond being present in person.

This, above all, is what I’ve learned as I’ve lived on this island— and as I have time yet to live. Nothing can capture the kinetic energy— because then it is made static— which is not what we are.