on september the eighth

Growing up and growing older is funny.

Sometimes it hits me that I am on my own now, that it's been several years since high school, that I am way past the date I always had set in my mind that my life would make sense, or that I would have it all figured out. I think when I was little I always assumed that this age was around 16 or 18. Now, about a month away from 23, all I can do is chuckle knowing that in ten years I will still be growing and smiling at what I thought I knew and understood now.

I don't like moving.

That's not entirely true, because there is something beautiful and mysterious and new about leaving behind the familiar to embrace what is uncomfortable. It changes you. Most of my family and friends know that if anyone is prone to randomly decide to move to a new place on a moment's notice, it is probably me. So, maybe it's not the moving that bothers me. No, it's the packing. It's the memories that flood your senses as you pick up a picture frame or wrap up your history in cardboard and tape.

I chatted with my beautiful mom today for awhile as she packs away our belongings and gets ready to put our house up for sale; the place I have thought of as home for the last seven or eight years. While procrastinating on my homework I wondered at this mystery of life and love and moving on to new things. It's hard sometimes to set those old things on the sidewalk and walk away, and even harder not to look back and wonder if it was okay to just leave them there.

I had time today, for the first time in a few weeks, to just spend some time with myself. To just hang out, me and myself, listen to some beautiful acoustic melodies, play some of my own songs, and dwell on what is good and true in my life. I forget to take these moments for myself often, especially with school, work, my social life, and trying to cram in study sessions at all hours of the night.

It's times like these, when everything is changing and racing forward, that I realize how blessed I am to have those places I have called home. Within four walls can rest more memories than the ocean could hold, and I remember my sister Brittany and I sleeping under the glow of the Christmas tree to try to catch Santa (we were 18). I remember hard nights and tears shed, writing on the walls in our basement, relationships ending, campfires in the backyard, the conversations that changed me on the front porch. I remember my exhaustion and relief when I finally stumbled into the living room after my misadventures this summer to a room that I recognized and faces I love.

Sometimes I get lost in the moment, I freak out about the drama queens (and a couple kings) that dislike me for whatever reason, I worry about finances, or I dwell on things that don't matter. Days like today come along, when I can stand on my porch and watch the clouds changing colors, feel the cool breeze in my face, sip my coffee and feel autumn crashing in around me... and I realize that it's all okay. That I have the brains to ignore the superficial, the gift to write music, friends that are constantly coming into my life to bless me, and ramen in my cupboard to eat.

And I realize that I don't have to know it all. I don't have to have all the answers. I don't have to change the whole world, I just have to keeping working on myself. And home will follow me wherever I go, whether I'm moving or staying still.