Stirring Point

It’s been two weeks to the day since I returned to U.S. soil, and already, I find myself reaching for memories that are starting to fade. Faces and names from Morocco and Algeria are slipping through my fingers like grains of sand. Three months ago, their voices filled my days as hospitable hosts and partners in exploration. And now, their features slide into some hazy, second-tier memory. “What was his name?” I ask myself. “Where was he from?” It felt like only yesterday we were backslapping and tossing the term “brother” back and forth, like we’d known each other for ages. And now, as new experiences flood in, I wonder if I’d recognize many of my “brothers” at all.

The last two weeks have been filled with joy—my grandmother’s 93rd birthday, my best friend’s wedding, and precious time spent with my parents at our family cabin. Yet a dividing line bifurcates me into dueling hemispheres: one half yanked toward a life at home, and the other half reaching for the riches of the road. My home life is of paramount importance; there’s no question. However, a fire inside propels me to seek out the raw, punchy experiences awaiting me in lands I’ve yet to discover, and I’m unsure how to tamp it down. To explore for pleasure is a gift of fortune, and to deny that gift for reasons of fear and discomfort is an affront to the waning years of my life. As the neuroscientist and philosopher Sam Harris once said, “Consider the fact that at least a billion people on the planet would consider their prayers answered to have your fortune in the world.” I know what I have in this life, and I’m certain his math is correct.

But at what cost? There were loving faces waiting at home for my safe return while I was off trading our time together for moments with strangers I can now hardly remember. Some of these travel friends become friends for life, but the lion’s share fade away.

And now, as I flip through the Rolodex of faces that were so important to me a few months ago, I wonder how I’ll manage these hemispheres of “self.” Clarity feels both perpetual and profound when I’m traveling, yet it seems to fade over the long arc of time. Traveling for three months was a primer, a revving of the engine. I was coming to life as my journey was coming to an end. I found my footing just as it was time to return home and kick off my boots. And now I am home, finding beauty with my family, community, and the comforts of routine. Yet somewhere in the background, the echos of “What’s next?” bounce endlessly around my mind. Like a tramp to a boxcar, the edge of the horizon calls my name and beckons me toward its glow.

Will it ever end? How many birthdays, weddings, and deaths am I bound to miss in giving oxygen to this flame? How long do I expect my community to wait each time I depart? When will their concern expire, and when will my face shift to obscurity in their memories? I weigh these questions while I dream of new adventures, knowing my hunger for discovery, as beautiful as it is, carries a cost.