Thinking this morning about how easily (comparatively, anyway) I am able to feel free to live my life when I am away from home. I saw a souvenir from Sky City out of the corner of my eye (the $5 wildlife travel mug that I used for my cardamom coffee every morning but was useless for actual travel because it didn't fit into any cup holders) and the disconnect between that girl and my current self was almost palpable.  It knocked the wind out of me for a second. At first I brushed it off as simple nostalgia- the way that everything is always more perfectly itself in the retelling-but then I realized that it's really the weight of my history that keeps me up at night worrying and playing what-if.  It's the ghosts of everyone I've loved who is not here anymore, and the immediate reminder that the ones who are left won't be here forever.  I won't be here forever. It's the way that standing in the kitchen I've known for 25 years makes me remember all of the things I thought I was going to do, but didn't.

I had always assumed that leaving home and starting my "real" life in a new place would make me stronger, would prove my courage.  I'm starting to understand now that staying home will be much harder.