I don't go fly fishing, I come

Many of my friends and family know very well that this time of life for me, especially in terms of my employment situation, is something that makes less than enough sense to me. I get asked every so often by a fellow employee who learns of my background, "What the hell are you doing here?" They recognize that I don't necessarily belong there, though I feel very welcomed everyday walking into work. I feel welcome and wanted most of the time; I never feel, though, as if I belong there. I do, in some way, belong there, but in so many other ways that seem to speak louder and more clearly...I do not.

So, as often as I can, and sometimes when I really shouldn't, I come fly fishing. It is indescribable to have an almost tangible feeling of belongingness when I'm beside some new stream holding some fish that probably has never been caught. When I spend so many hours so deep down under a sense that I got off at the wrong bus stop, a few hours letting out all the breath I'd been holding for days or a week works literal miracles.

I am sure that it borders on some sort of psych disorder that C could immediately diagnose, but the moment I get to the water, the moment I first see a fish, and certainly again when I catch the first of the day...I am compelled to at least say in my heart and with a genuine smile and import, "hello again, friends." The feeling may not go both ways, but there is a comforted, playful sort of mood I settle into when I'm around fish that I only ever have in one other place--home. It's nice to come home, regardless of which home that may be.