Some years ago, I sat with a friend in my parents’ California living room, talking about the possibility of living “somewhere else.” I said that I could probably live anywhere and be happy. (I handily left out the fact that I’d never moved in my entire life and had no idea what I was talking about.) She squinted and said, “I see you as a kind of vagabond homebody.” I liked the idea of being a vagabond; it was exciting and I had always dreamed of travel, of not caring where my next shower came from or which fancy European cafe I’d try next. But the “homebody” part bothered me. I decided to ignore it.
I’m 26 now, and I’ve been living “somewhere else” for seven years. I still dream of travel, but always in the context of coming back Home, whatever that mythical word means. I do care where my next shower comes from, and I don’t have money for fancy European cafes. And bothersome or not, the “homebody” part of me can’t be ignored. I like having a place. I’m in love with the mythical word Home. I think I probably always will be.
This blog is a little corner of my new life – somewhere to process and put things while I work out what it means to build a home wherever life lands me. I’m grateful that you’re here! Thanks for reading and thinking with me.
All the best to you and yours, in all the places you inhabit.