Last week I had a moment when I wondered if I were perhaps crazy.
I’m an introspective sort. If you’re like me, then when you face change, you spend some time reflecting on what you’ve just done. This time it got me feeling a bit nostalgic. These last two months have been very different. For the first time in a while, I was back in Yorkshire for a while, with my family.
Whilst the Mother does drive me a little crazy (although, perhaps I drive her crazier), she’s nowhere near so difficult as I remember. And yes the Midget and I managed to clash over the most innocuous of things, but this didn’t happen as nearly as often as I had expected. The Father went to work 5 days a week. Apart from having a peculiar desire to watch a TV program about a bus, he failed to spring on us too many insane ideas. Which was a surprise.
Worryingly, the whole set-up felt rather comfortable. I saw friends, ate good food and took great delight in the sunshine when it was around. The beautiful Yorkshire moors surrounded me. Here I ran and walked, on the way up cramming my mouth full of juicy blackberries. I actually began to worry it was too comfortable. Nobody was saying anything that vexed me and my emotions which have this year hit all sorts of highs and lows seemed to suddenly settle quite contentedly. I wasn’t even angry.
Such ease is dangerous. Any discomfort begins to look bigger than it actually is. Work feels like it must be difficult rather than inspiring.
So last week, for a short moment where I felt the pull of the attachment, I wondered if by leaving it all behind again I was mad.
But curiosity and a desire for a smidgen more discomfort than I had, just so I keep growing and learning, kept me on my path. I hugged my parents at the train station. Gave final hugs to some of my friends who I’d managed to see at the last minute. And then I boarded a plane to fly away from all those people I love.