HOURS BEFORE my flight back to Los Angeles from San Francisco, my girlfriend Coco and I stop in Oakland for lunch. As we amble downtown, we pass an artist in his studio.

Both he and the paintings on the walls are dripping with style, color, and vibrancy; the studio door is open, and there’s a gravity that pulls us like the moon on the tides.

I can’t help but admire the fit, as the man dons a paint-splattered Japanese-style quilted green jacket, baggy jeans, sky-grey headphones and some gold reading frames. We pop our heads through the door without thinking.

“Why don’t you come all the way in?” he asks, smiling as he takes off his over-ear headphones.

“We’re headed to the airport,” responds Coco, not expecting a conversation, just wanting to tell him she likes his artwork. The paintings on the walls are charming and bright, pastel colors forming faces, the features made of natural elements like trees and leaves and branches.

He stops painting and saunters to the door — still smiling widely — to chat. We tell him we like it in Oakland, and might try living here. “Hang on,” he says, and he grabs a postcard with his artwork on it, handing it to me before we leave. We walk away feeling something profound; I stick the postcard in my journal.

I write this in the postcard at the airport now, waiting by the large glass window for my flight. The interaction felt good. The man was kind and welcomed us into his city, his studio, his day.

I remember once passing a man in a park working on a painting in Chiang Mai, Thailand. He was a foreigner and wore no shoes. He seemed to have been in Chiang Mai for many years, coming to this park to paint.

The painting was a distinct style from the artist in Oakland — dark and red and gold and volcanic, a combative energy, worlds colliding, a clash of heaven and hell.

It’s beautiful, I told the man. He hardly acknowledged me, absorbed by his work with his brow furrowed and his lips moving slightly, talking to himself, as if he were Michelangelo working on the Sistine Chapel. Such a different vibe.

In Oakland, the style of the artwork was loose, free, a breath of fresh air. The artist was too — the way he walked, talked, and took the time to acknowledge our presence. That affected me, as if his gesture blew in on winds of change.

I like Oakland’s edge, its art, its energy; I like the natural surroundings and history of the Bay Area. It’s the first city in the U.S. that has spoken to me in a long time.

I lived in Japan for two and a half years, and before that spent time in Europe. I’ve been on the move for a while, returning to the states a month and a half ago to plan my next step.

I’m navigating through this space between two doors. Behind me are my twenties and the personal brand that I’ve created as a writer on the go, constantly seeking new experiences in foreign countries. In front of me I look to the stars, signposts telling me which way to turn. And, well, meeting this artist was a welcome sign, a greeting from the other door.

Take a breath and come on through. Post up for a while. Have an adventure nearer home and see how it feels.

Until recently, the plan was to pick the next international destination and get out there. But perhaps that was the plan because I thought it had to be. It’s like I’m keeping up with myself, and right now, I’m tired.

But it’s not like I’m herding alpacas in the Andes or smuggling ancient artifacts out of Amsterdam or stowing away on intercontinental railways. Not yet . . .

It’s sort of the opposite.

What I love about traveling is slowing down and just observing. My favorite thing is sitting outdoors at a cafe and watching a busy street go by. I have my journal; I scribble notes; I feed off an energy that I can’t really understand. It makes me feel alive.

But I’m realizing that the story isn’t only out there in the world; it’s not what I see, but how I see, that I write about endlessly. I’m twenty nine. There are still many adventures in store. I’ve been traveling for years, and that is what I know. Yet instead of continually drifting in the breeze, perhaps it’ll do me good to set some roots for the flowers of my soul to grow.

Maybe I am ready to be in the U.S. for a while. A place that I can make my own, that Coco and I can make our home. I could do with some stability and friends; it sounds nice to feel grounded, to take some time to focus on my craft, my relationship, and my health without the added stress of living in a foreign country.

We don’t need to travel to be on an adventure. An adventure can be had in the depths of our soul, as an adventure is when we don’t know what’s coming next, and we go anyway. We take chances; we listen to our intuition and discover something about the world and ourselves.

The greatest adventure of all is had with the heart. Love is a risk, because love brings pain. Yet that pain is worth it, as there are depths to life that can’t be perceived without letting ourselves fall into that boundless abyss.

We create these rules in our minds, these images of who we’re supposed to be, the dialogues of what others will think. Yet all that matters is what brings us peace in our own heart and soul. Right now, it feels like my relationship would benefit from some stability in the homeland. I think that would bring me peace.

It feels good to change the narrative a bit — to adapt, be flexible, and realize that I don’t have to be constantly exploring foreign countries to be who I think I am.

I’m just a man moving forward, striving to enjoy the ride.

We gotta ask ourselves what we truly want, and that changes every damn day. I’m still a writer, no matter where I am. I want some stability, too, to begin my third book on my time in Japan.

I want a place of my own, somewhere that’s small and peaceful and has the things that bring me joy. I want community, and perhaps I’ll find a day job in Oakland where I can learn something as I continue to pursue my dreams.

I want a desk to write and record my podcast, and a place for my clothes. I don’t want to live out of a bag right now. Maybe in six months to a year I’ll be itching to hit the road — but it’s one day at a time. I surrender to the universe.

And if I’m going off the signs, I’ll take the artist’s gesture as a manifestation of good things to come. Who knew such a passing connection could mean so much, but it does. They’re everything.

I think about the two artists. The man in Chiang Mai was so consumed by his work that he hardly had a second to thank a passerby for a compliment.

The artist in Oakland was also in the middle of painting. But he stopped, took off his headphones, and invited in some unforeseen magic. Perhaps then, he’d return to the work — his path — with a new perspective, fresh eyes. Or not. Maybe it was just nice to take a breath.