I am sitting on an exceptionally cushy couch in the living room of the house I grew up in. I feel comfortable, though pensive and disquieted.
I’m watching television for the first time in a year. I’m driving the car I drove in college. I’m eating full meals compliments of my parents. I’m sleeping in my room full of stuff I left behind when I moved to a different state six years ago.
I’m only here for two weeks. It’s wonderful to see my parents and my brother and my friend and the beach.
After letting the world wash over me and feeling it change me, it’s good to come back to my origin and remember what made me. It’s good to remember things I already knew. It’s like a ship righting itself after being pushed toward the surface by a wave. But, before traveling I wasn’t righted either. I was lying lazily on my side, off-kilter and weighed down by my staleness and mundanity.
I feel balance.
But nagging thoughts are making their way to the shallows of my mind. I feel a tension in my skull return that had untangled itself while I roamed.
I am afraid I cannot do this. I’m afraid of not being constantly on the move. I’m afraid I can’t do this whole full-time-job thing. I’m afraid the courage and the wonder and the joy I found will fade fast. I’m afraid I’ll sink into another couch and not want to go out into the world again. I’m afraid the way that I feel different will retreat like a nap-time dream.
Is internal change something you need to white-knuckle hold onto? Or is change real and biding?