What Makes Sense

The last day of a short trip, and it was exactly the right length for the mood I'm in, and for what still waits ahead of me.

The distance from Hong Kong to Shenzhen is short. The feeling between them is not. Hong Kong wears the old version of me — slightly on edge, weaving through crowds with their heads bowed to their phones, a city that always sends me back somewhere I've already left. There's an unsteadiness in it, a sense of ground I can't quite locate beneath my feet.

Crossing back into the mainland, something in me settles. I couldn't tell you exactly why. China simply makes sense to me, lets me lift my gaze to the horizon instead of down at my feet, lets the smile that meets it be humble instead of braced.

There's no perfect place. The struggles of a life don't pause for geography. But for reasons still beyond me, they quiet considerably wherever I've come to call home.

What I love most about being here isn't comfort. It's the pull. Simply standing on this ground makes me want to practice. To be better, to learn more, to eventually hand back everything this place has slowly, patiently shown me.

It feels good to be home. A sentence I haven't let myself say out loud in a very long time.