32Some 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.


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