In search of lost time

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My family moved. A lot. By the time I was eleven, I had already been to my fifth elementary school. That's five times the introductions, five times the making new friends, five times the calling a new house "home", and a lot of unnecessary goodbyes. I'd like to say that moving was always a fun adventure or that my dad's exciting work led us to great places, but in all actuality, it wasn't the case that that we just had to move or that our moving was enjoyable in any way. If anything, we were running away from something. I just never thought to figure out what.

When I was born, my mother had just turned 24, my father not yet 26. Twenty-one years later, I find my parents to be amazingly insightful (read: mother knows best), but somehow still naive in certain aspects of life. It's almost as if they've been frozen in time, like some part of them is waiting for their return home, ready for them to assume their rightful place, ready to pick off where their dreams left off. The thing is, though, that they're never going back, no matter what their intentions are. Too much time and history has passed, and neither can be erased or mended, even with the passage of more time to come.

At her core, my mom is a truly humble being. She's an open book and looks at herself exactly as she is, rather than as what she could, or should, have been. My dad is pretty much the opposite, in those regards. He's arrogant in his abilities, most definitely a braggart and charmer. His confidence assures you that his thoughts are always a few steps ahead of his reality. It's hard to acknowledge them as regular people, prone to the pains and desires life has to offer. Even so, I can tell they're confused and scared and unsure of life sometimes, kind of like how I am now.

I have so many friends who have lived in the same place their whole lives. They've known their best friends since preschool, their relatives live within driving distance, and most have never left the state. Some of them hate home, and others can't seem stay away. I want that. I want to know something so well, be a part of it so much that I have to hate it or love it. I want to be able to claim a place as my own. I want that boring, sedentary history. I want that home. I want those memories. I want that sense of belonging.

As parents, my mom and dad can be pretty horrible. My siblings stay up late, and Julie sometimes falls asleep before brushing her teeth. They eat loads of junk food and are often left to fend for themselves while my parents are at meetings. The lack of structure is really quite unbelievable; it's pretty much a miracle that I turned out the way I did. But all things considering, my parents raised us to love, to empathize, and to be all that we can be, regardless of our past, hopeful of our future. Above all, they’ve taught us to appreciate life, and though it’s not fair by any stretch of the imagination, I really am happy with my life and how my story is unfolding. I truly, truly believe that where we are is exactly where we're meant to be. But I can’t help but want more.

I want my old memories back. I want my pain-in-the-ass family reunions at Thanksgiving and Christmas. I want my inside jokes and summer vacations and graduation entourage. Pictures from a decade before don't cut it. Not anymore.

So here I stand, my life as bright and perfect as I could ever hope for, but still incomplete in some way, shape or form. I have no doubt that my experiences have made me better, stronger, than I otherwise would have been. But what's missing?



I took this picture of Mirror Lake during my camping trip at Yosemite last August. The water level is usually much higher in the Spring, as indicated by the water rings on the rock. You've probably seen the lake before, but in better form; the iconic pictures of it by Ansel Adams that highlight Mt. Watkins are majestic and absolutely breath-taking. But still, nothing can replace the real thing. If you ever have the opportunity, you should definitely go at least once in your life.

Such clear reflections of yourself are quite an experience to witness.