Stationary Drifting


drinking a glass of wine and contemplating what it means to be home.

I just spent the weekend in the place I grew up. See pictures below. That town always brings up complicated things for me. I love seeing my mom, family, and the few friends I am still in contact with 10 years after high tailing it out of there. I love the mountains, and the friendly spirit and even the driving. I love how familiar the place still is despite its big new highways, big new malls and over the top lifestyle. It feels right in some ways, in the ways that no where else feels right, even though I know I will never choose to live there. It also taps into a deeply uncomfortable side of myself, the side that upon moving there at 12 years old, I already knew it wasn’t the place for me. I am torn by both the desire to be there and to get the hell out of there.

So now I’ve arrived back home, to my place, in the city I’ve actively worked on making my home for the past 4+ years. And I feel equally complicated. I know that partially its because I feel sad about having said goodbye to my brother after he lived with me for the past months so that he can go off to follow his own adventures that don’t include seeing each other every day. I also know that its part of a sadness of having left the city I grew up in and my family, knowing that I won’t see them again for a while. And while I adore this city that I live in, the one I call home. I wonder what it is that makes it home for me. Whenever I’m asked if I plan to stay in here, I have trouble answering that question. I sense within it a desire to hear where I will stay forever and I’ve never been able to say that with certainty, not even when I’m perfectly content and have no plans on leaving.

See a lot of places have been home.

I moved a lot with my family, from city to city and houses within those cities. I’ve also moved a lot on my own. If I were to tally the number of places I have lived, I would have to ask you what constitutes living in a place? A couple of weeks? One month? Three? A year? More than one year? How many years? I don’t know the answer to that question because I could give you numbers differently depending on your definition. My definition depends on the life situation I was in at the time.

I throw around the term home pretty easily. “Let’s go home”, I say, wherever I am to whomever I’m with. To me, its a place where I sleep, where I can relax, where meals are eaten or thought about, privacy is had (to some degree) and intimate moments are shared. That is a very flexible place in my mind. Even though I know that home means something much more deeply felt. To me, as well as generally. The city I grew up in is not the only city I’ve grown up in, its just the least complicated response I can give you. I would argue that I am still growing up in places, and probably always will be.

So now that I’ve arrived home. From a place I call home. I feel both soothed and unsettled. And am curious about the meaning of home I am creating.


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