Moving is hard. It makes the top three in this article, along with job loss, both of which have occurred recently in my life. I am completely capable of feeling simultaneously like it shouldn't be so hard and like it's way harder for me than anyone else. I long for Kinshasa the way one longs for a lover after a break up. I remember only the good, never the bad and I see all the ways I let it go wrong, not the dreams I had for the future. I miss my friends and the cozy routines even though both had begun to wear me out.
I've spent some time trying to figure out how to describe this move and I keep imagining a big empty house. Pile all of your things in the middle of a room and then live for six months. Imagine the disorder. Add three kids to the mix and imagine the chaos. Small worries but worries nonetheless.
Several days have passed since I have started writing this and in that time I have actually gotten some things hung up on the walls. Ever closer to cozy-hood. Vacation has also occurred, lending to a slightly more relaxed inner atmosphere. Mostly.
There are plenty of days and moments when I am left questioning and reflecting on the shape of things, decisions I've made and ones others have made that directly affect me. Forever in search of understanding and developing 20/20 hindsight before I need it (20/20 pre-sight, I guess.)
Weighing the options before me had me considering the old adage about whether it is better to be a big fish in a little pond or a little fish in a big pond, each having it's merits. It stands to reason it is most comfortable to be the fish you have always been and changing either the size of the pond or the size of the fish is bound to bring on some discomfort.
I was washing dishes and trying to find some way out of the cycle of it all. Think outside the box, I reminded myself. And that's when I figured it out. I don't want to be a fish at all.
