In a few minutes I'll hop into bed, my packed suitcases and laid-out clothes beside me. I have been here in Aotearoa for less than two weeks, an impossibly short time for any real engagement... but I've done what I can and will be back again in June.
Now I can feel my other self kicking into gear: the girl I met when I first moved overseas all those years ago: August 2000, and I climbed into a plane to the US a weepy young thing and emerged with a slightly different look in the eye and a focus on keeping on top of it all. Not climbing to the top - just keeping things running smoothly, keeping on top so it doesn't all spin out of control.
Some days I am very impressed by this girl who clicks into place the minute I approach an airport by myself; other days I worry about my apparent ability to disconnect and focus as if there's the flick of a switch. I've been deeply feeling the layers of a difficult farewell or journey, and suddenly this girl turns up and takes over, bossing my more emotional and vulnerable self until I find myself simply following her directions: check moisturiser is in bag, pick out clothes for the flight, put poassport in pink passport holder in front pocket of handbag, stop thinking about what you're leaving behind.
Although I don't like to admit it, I need her: I need this girl who keeps it together and methodically passes through borders with all of their expectations of performance, submission, organisation and hefty instruments of discernment. I need her when I'm faced with a borderguard (at national borders, but other kinds too, somedays). I need her to keep my tears to a minimum, my eyes on the trip, my finger on the pulse.
At the same time, as with any relationship, I think she needs me too. She only makes sense as long as I am my organic, messy, apologising, distracted, emotional self.
Actually, when I think about it, I think we kind of need each other.
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