The first major challenge was the kitchen. The kitchen was full of small, light, easy-to-accidentally-levitate objects.
"Morning, sleepyhead," his dad chirped from behind his newspaper. "Did you finish that history essay?"
"Almost, Dad," Alex mumbled, shuffling toward the pantry. He kept his hands jammed deep in the pockets of his sweatpants. He reached for a box of cereal, eyes narrowed in concentration. He didn't want the box to lift off the shelf like a miniature, cardboard UFO. He used only his fingertips, applying the bare minimum of physical force.
Focus on the taste of the flakes. Focus on the crunch. Anything but the atoms.
He made it to the table without incident. But as he poured the milk, disaster almost struck. He was thinking about how much he hated his geometry homework, and the milk carton, still mostly full, suddenly felt lighter, straining upward in his grip.
A bead of sweat trickled down his temple. "Whoa!" he exclaimed, slamming the carton down a little too hard.
His mom looked up, concerned. "Honey, you alright? You look pale."
"Yeah, fine, Mom. Just... really focused on the pour. Didn't want to spill," he lied, scooping cereal into his bowl with mechanical precision.
"Well, you almost overshot the bowl with your spoon," his dad noted, peering over the rim of the paper.
Alex looked down. His spoon, instead of resting in the bowl, was hovering a half-inch above his Cheerios, vibrating faintly. He quickly dropped his mental focus, and the spoon clattered into the cereal, splashing milk onto the table.
"Ugh, clumsy!" Alex snatched a napkin and furiously wiped the table.
He realized the problem wasn't just willing things to move; it was that his internal emotions seemed to fuel the power. Stress, fear, and even mild frustration made the energy surge. He had to become a Zen master of neutrality.