in sickness or in health

My writing has been feeling rather uninspired lately. NaBloPoMo has been leaving me scrambling for content, saying things like "Oh crap! I still have to blog tonight!" and stretching every little idea embarrasingly far beyond its prosaic worth.

I realized tonight why that is. Lately my output has been lame... because my input has been lacking. Normally I've got my nose in a book at any given minute in which it (the nose) is not otherwise occupied with worthwhile activities. But since I've gotten home, I've been a restless reader at best. I'll start a book, fail to get hooked, and listlessly toss it on the growing reject pile beside my bed. For every book that's pulled me in, three or four are nothing but old chestnuts. Clunkers. In desperation I pulled out an old faithful - Prodigal Summer, this time on CD - and at least it didn't fail to captivate me. Perhaps it had an advantage in that my car and my schedule held me captive and didn't allow the option of tossing the book aside.

I have three promising new books on the bedside table of my hotel room right now, and my hope is that this recent unfortunate trend is about to reverse itself. We've got "God of Small Things," which has been recommended to me by several folks with whom I have very compatible taste in literary lore; "The Source of Magic," sequel to one of my all-time top 5 sci-fi books; and "Urban Tribes," by Ethan Watters. This last one was my chosen dinner companion tonight. The pastor in charge of the 20- and 30-somethings group is quite taken with it.

And I have to say, it most rocks. Props to Mr. Watters for pinpointing a movement, or a trend, or a shifting wind in the life of young-ish Americans without coming across like some self-absorbed, self-proclaimed expert. He's telling it like it is in his life, and I resonate mightily.

When you're in college, you fit a demographic. Same goes for an intentional volunteer community, for seminary, for studying abroad, and for living as one of three or four Americans in a small German town. I've known (if not loved) my niche for all of my early adulthood. And now I've come home, and I am no longer student, no longer ex-pat. I'm not married, don't have kids, and frankly neither of those events seems to be looming on the Sometime-Soon Horizon, either. I am stuck somewhere in between.

I am mighty thankful that I had my wits about me enough last spring to put "awesome, supportive community" on the very tippy-top of my list of re-entry priorities. These past 10 weeks could have been so much different, so much harder, so much lonelier, if I'd chosen to make a new start in a brand-new place with brand-new people. Instead I found my urban tribe and clung - desperately or boldly, depending on how you look at it - to the hope that we could be friend and family to each other.

It's very odd to me now, being so glued to my vehicle, having a life radius of 500 miles instead of 5, regularly seeing friends and dropping by on acquaintances in four or so different states. But it works, because these are my tribes, for better or for worse, till death (or marriage) do us part.