Some days, I want to go home. I miss my cousins. I miss my parents. I miss the beach and the sun and the people who know me. I miss the shops and the libraries and the paths I used to run. I miss the schools I used to go to. I miss driving down streets I used to struggle to find parking, seeing restaurants where I would go because I had nothing else to do, or coffee shops I’d frequent because I didn’t have WiFi, or friends’ houses where we’d hang out for hours.
But I’m not ready to go home.
Because for all the things that I miss about home, going back seems so final. It means I’m done with my walkabout. It means the adventure is over.
I’m not ready to go home because most of the things I miss are just memories and there’s so many new ones to be made. But the missing is like mourning. The past has always been the past, which means it’s always been gone, but now it’s truly fading away.
Like it always has. And it always will. Move on.
"Sign of the Times | Walk, Don’t Run" in the New York Times and by LIESL SCHILLINGER
The thrill of walking is one I still can’t explain, but this essay touches on many of the emotions I relate to. I like to take 2-hour walks once it’s warm enough and just let the weight of my surroundings take hold. You can spend hours or days or years in a neighborhood and on a street and never truly know it. Walking literally grounds you, forces you to see where before you only glanced. It is powerful and necessary.