Progress and movement are two concepts that seem to go hand in hand. Where there is progress, there is movement in a specific direction: forward. What doesn’t seem to be factored into this relationship is the multiple facets of confusion that accompany momentum.
At 10:03 AM one Saturday morning, I giddily opened the refrigerator knowing that a box of Dominos was waiting inside. No regrets, just love (#teenagedream). What I failed to realize before opening the box was (1) I only had three slices left, and (2) it was only Saturday morning. I had made glorious plans to consume pizza and only pizza until Sunday afternoon, and dread filled me upon realizing I was about to eat one-third of my entire weekend’s meals before noon on Saturday. I didn’t feel justified in performing this act until I eventually muttered something to myself: “Me now is as important as me later.” With that gentle realization, I threw (read: cradled and placed) all three slices in the microwave and ate them with no regrets.
My generation and generations before me have been innately taught to be future-oriented. We learn to crawl to learn to walk. We learn to walk to learn to run. We go to school to go to more school. We go to more school to get a job. We get a job to move out, and we move out to start our own family. We’re itching to leave and get onto the next thing, and we want to be independent to find ourselves, form ourselves, and wield independence like a sword in the journey of life. We move on to move forward and it’s rare to notice someone, anyone, prioritizing the present over what lies ahead because let’s face it, there’s always a next step.
Take the concept of moving out, for example. I’ve been contemplating what the idea of home constitutes lately. Why are there so many ways to define home, and why do all of them ring true in their own ways?
“Home is where your heart is.”
“Home is where you’re loved the most.”
“Home is where your mom is.”
“Home is wherever I’m with you.”
“Home is where you park it.”
But what has been getting me the most about this recent thought train is the turning point. When does it stop being “my house” and start being “my parents’ house?” When does the place you’re staying for the next few days, months, or years become the place you yearn for to seek refuge from the hustle and bustle of society? Does the latter even describe what it means for somewhere to be home? Is “home” something that’s forced upon you (i.e. This is home now, get used to it), or is it a slow transition that’s hard to sense when it’s happening (i.e. Oh hey, I guess this is home)? And see, to me, the last idea? That’s the weirdest part. When I look back at the few places I called home, I never remember one moment or one day when it became home. It just did. On the contrary, some places never became home, they were just places that I resided.
As I type away these words, I think I’m slowly admitting to myself that a deep-seeded fear of mine is not being able to call this new, foreign apartment and this new, foreign city “home” because I’m definitely not there yet. I’m aware it takes time, and there’s no formula. There are multiple definitions.
It’s hard to strive towards a goal when you don’t even know where to run towards.
But I guess you just pick a direction that calls out and you run because if there was a formula to life and you could use Google Maps to look up where you were supposed to end up next and how long it took to get there and somehow you could anticipate how you’d feel each step of the way… What would living even be? With momentum, you never know: you know there will be progress, and with that steadfast faith, you march on.