Last night, I opened up a lot of Haifa memories, thinking about the anniversary of the passing of Abdu'l-Baha. Now, almost everything makes me think of something from Haifa. I got out my journal to try and remember what things were happening then. Mr. Furutan passed away, the visit to the House of Abdu'l-Baha for the Holy Day, and Thanksgiving in Haifa, where some of the American youth and our flatmates and friends shared turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, etc. together. And that's opened up the heartache of missing people who are no longer a daily part of my life.

That year in Haifa was such a challenging year, a formative year, and a humbling year. So much of my journal talks about the love and admiration I had for my fellow youth, the tiredness that came from working so hard and being so sick (but not knowing it), the uncertainty of trying to figure out who I was and how to show that person to the rest of the world, and trying to get all the thoughts out of my head and onto paper or out of my mouth, so I didn't feel so trapped within myself. Just reading a few days of my journals bring all that back so quickly and so fresh, no wonder I felt the urgent need to go back to that incredible place after writing my thesis using those journals. I'm starting to think about the reality of pilgrimage in just 6 months, and how 8 years ago it was exactly this time period that I was getting ready for going on my year of service in 6 months. Today it doesn't feel like a dream or a different world, the person I was and the things I did. So often it feels so intangible or imaginary that I wonder if it really did happen, but today I can actually put myself there and make it seem real. The people are real, the places are real. I remember the sincerity that I tried to put into everything I did and trying to take every opportunity I was given to learn, meet people, and experience new things.