I'm home. I'm home in Chapel Hill, in my little cinderblock house where I live with my husband. I arrived last night, did my volunteer radio show after a month's absence, and then had a long dinner with J. He and I exchanged stories. A few too many of mine began by setting the scene in a very ridiculous manner (such as, "Ok. We were playing this really intense game of beer pong..."). Today I'm catching up on emails. Bills. Junk mail. I'm doing loads of laundry. I feel a bit like that family in The Velveteen Rabbit after the child has scarlet fever. Burn (or wash) everything because it's all tainted. The smell of the ocean, a lethal disease...they're similar.

I plan to catch up with friends soon to tell them my stories. I'm not sure what to tell. As we were driving into the city Sunday, Jennifer and I listened as Max talked to a friend on his cell phone. "Well, I've just spent the better part of a month in Maine, having the time of my life," he said. That about sums it up.

But I'm excited about getting back to work, whatever that means for me now. I recently emailed a successful journalist, a friend of my parents, for career advice. She emailed me back a very long and helpful email that began by stating that she wasn't exactly sure what I was doing with my time or why I left my job. When I read that I worried. Indeed, who the hell do I think I am leaving my job with no idea of what the future holds?

Then I not only remembered that I'm allowed to subscribe to whatever particular life philosophy I want and not care what others may think, but I thought about the amazing time I'd just spent with friends, and even though I'm certainly not working too hard, I know what it means to have a meaningful experience, and if you want to write about something, a meaningful experience is a great place to start.