At the beginning of re-entry, everything feels like a blank canvas. Right now, the world around us seems very small, a network of single roads that lead to the Publix or the dentist or to Lowes. Anything further requires navigation. Each time I drive out of our neighborhood, I squint as I concentrate, recording the turns, the mailboxes, the signs that will lead me where I need to go and back home. School, turn right. Publix (grocery) turn right. Or is that left. Everything swims. I can find an obscure pottery shop in a backstreet of the Tsyboya district on Okinawa, but I can’t find my church four miles away without help.

I’ve been in four new-to-me grocery stores the last couple weeks. Yesterday I was hoping to just run in for a small cart-full of things we needed for dinner and breakfast, and as soon as I walked through the door, I felt like I had rocks in my gut. I don’t know where anything is yet, which makes running in to grab a few things a little harder than it should be. Yes, I read the signs overhead and ask when I need to, but it’s the un-routineness of it all that takes more energy than it should.

Blank canvases are full of promise, but they can also be paralyzing. I’ve introduced myself to neighbors and talked to a few new teachers this week. The kids are feeling the weight of the blank space.

Jet has taken to calling out his friendlessness as if he is information chiming the time:

“Two o’clock and I don’t have a friend!”

“Nine o’clock and I don’t know anyone!”

“It’s Wednesday and I don’t have a friend!”

I keep reminding him it has only been a couple weeks—that we will be busy and full soon. I need the reminder myself as I grouch aloud about our household goods (still not here) and privately mourn the absence of friends.

So I fill the maps in my mind, slowly populating the canvas with sites and signs that will disappear into the commonplace too soon.  When all else fails, my default map is set to drive to Sonic for cherry limeades, so we’re doing okay.