Arriving Home

After enough time has passed, it becomes difficult to even know where to begin. The little anecdotes of the days seem unimportant compared to the vast summary of my life that I feel inclined to update. Feeling the need to embark on such a task has been looming over me for days now, so I thought the best way to begin would simply be to, well, begin.

I’m home now. I arrived back in the United States on Saturday morning after twelve hours on an Indian bus down a mountain, a twenty-hour flight, a three-hour lay over followed by a two-hour flight. Welcome home. Arriving in Chicago was one of the oddest sensations I’ve ever experienced. Everything seemed so excessive. Stores and restaurants filled with so many options, people chatting to one another in a language I could understand, the faint smell of cookies wafting through the vents of the airport. It all felt so unnatural, so surreal.

The first few days home were difficult. I awoke my first two mornings here and wept, for reasons I couldn’t explain then, and reasons I can’t explain now. I was just so consumed with emotional instability. I just didn’t feel like I fit here, felt so out of place. I just didn’t know where I belonged.

I knew, of course, that it would be difficult to adjust. I just hadn’t realized the vast degrees to which that would be true. I hadn’t fully prepared myself, and I’m not sure that I ever really could have. It’s hard to return so different to a life so much the same.

Which is not to say I somehow think I’m superior to the life I once lived, nor do I believe I’ve outgrown it. It’s simply that I keep somehow expecting to turn a corner and be back in India, back to that place I love so dearly. It feels so close, and yet so far. It feels like I’ve only just arrived home and as though India were a thousand years ago. Perhaps maybe even just some elaborate dream I once dreamt. I fear the reality of it is slipping from me. I fear the person I became there is someone I left behind, someone who can only exist within the confines of one country.

I know that isn’t true, but leaping into my old routine the way I have -- returning to work right away, going out with friends every night -- has left me somewhat on edge about who exactly I am. My ability to adapt to my surroundings scares me sometimes. That line between happiness and complacency, between contentment and settling, haunts me. I never know which side I’m falling into. I’m never quite sure if I’ve convinced myself out of something I really want and need. It’s always easier to remain the same than to be daring, but my heart won’t stop aching for adventure. My heart won’t stop daring me to be more.

I want to be more. I want to be like the people I met traveling, the people who have spent their lives seeing the world. I don’t want to be 50 years old sitting behind a desk receiving emails from friends living the life I wish I could be living. I want to be the one living. I want to be alive.

Alive. Not just breathing. Not just going through the motions of each day, but burning with the kind of passion I felt while in India. I want each morning to glimmer with the prospect of beauty and exploration and adventure the way it did on my journey. I want the world to resonate with the kind of exquisite energy I felt there.

America just doesn’t have the same vibe. I know how ridiculous that probably sounds, but it was the first thing I noticed arriving home. There was an energy missing, a remarkable, ubiquitous feeling of friendliness and openness and love. But maybe that’s my new adventure. Maybe finding that in my surroundings wherever I am, finding that within myself, is the new journey I’ve only just begun. Maybe the key to feeling alive is as simple as living with a spirit that sets each morning ablaze with that kind of energy. Maybe I’m closer to the life I want than I ever could have imagined.