Home is Where...?
I think more and more about going home. I don't mean to my house. As in, "I'm going home now". I guess to distinguish, I should use a capital H when speaking of Home versus a little h when speaking of home. The latter being the house where I currently reside. The former... Well, the former is a bit more difficult to define.
You see, I've been searching for Home (the one with a capital H... See how I did that?) for the majority of my adult life. I know I've said it before - probably more than once in this blog alone - I grew up in the same house from the age of 3 until my parents divorced when I was 24. I went away to college and one year of grad school, but that house on Wanesta Drive in Poway, California was Home.
This is by no means a diatribe against my parents' divorce. I'm good with it; have been for quite some time. They are both happy. My sister is happy. I am happy. I'm merely saying that when my parents divorced and sold my childhood home, I lost my Home.
And I've been looking for it ever since.
I've occasionally thought I found it. Home. My adult home. The place I could be, live, etc. I guess I should capitalize those words, too. As in, Be, Live, Etc. Because assuredly I've been, lived, and etc'd many times since 1993. Just never with the caps lock on.
Is that weird? I've moved slightly less than a zillion times in four different cities/towns in my adulthood. I moved only once as a child and maybe that's the problem. Or maybe the problem (well, 'problem' may not be the right word) is that my childhood Home was chosen for me. And because it was so stable, so un-changing, I'm a bit out of my depth as an adult.
I like to think I'll know it when I see it. Or maybe I'll know it when I feel it. Home, that is. Home. That illusive place I've spent - now - almost half my life searching for. Strange what I just realized - my life is split in two nearly identical, yet vastly dissimilar, halves. The half I was Home and the half I've spent searching.
Maybe that bodes well for me. 24 years doing each. With my 48th year approaching (often more rapidly that I'd like to acknowledge), maybe, just maybe, I'll find my way Home. Finally. As an adult. Then I can spend the next half of my life - 48 years - at Home.
Wherever the Hell that is. I still don't know. I guess I know where it's not. Austin. Texarkana. Muskegon. I've lived in those places and try as I might (ok, admittedly I didn't always try very hard), none of them felt like Home. I should try harder? I guess my issue is that when it's Home, it shouldn't require a whole lot of trying. It should just...well...be Home.
Recently, I traveled to a place that I think might be it. Home. Home at last. I really don't know, but of all the places I've been in the last 24 years of searching, it feels the closest. I suppose we'll have to see.
You see, I've been searching for Home (the one with a capital H... See how I did that?) for the majority of my adult life. I know I've said it before - probably more than once in this blog alone - I grew up in the same house from the age of 3 until my parents divorced when I was 24. I went away to college and one year of grad school, but that house on Wanesta Drive in Poway, California was Home.
This is by no means a diatribe against my parents' divorce. I'm good with it; have been for quite some time. They are both happy. My sister is happy. I am happy. I'm merely saying that when my parents divorced and sold my childhood home, I lost my Home.
And I've been looking for it ever since.
I've occasionally thought I found it. Home. My adult home. The place I could be, live, etc. I guess I should capitalize those words, too. As in, Be, Live, Etc. Because assuredly I've been, lived, and etc'd many times since 1993. Just never with the caps lock on.
Is that weird? I've moved slightly less than a zillion times in four different cities/towns in my adulthood. I moved only once as a child and maybe that's the problem. Or maybe the problem (well, 'problem' may not be the right word) is that my childhood Home was chosen for me. And because it was so stable, so un-changing, I'm a bit out of my depth as an adult.
I like to think I'll know it when I see it. Or maybe I'll know it when I feel it. Home, that is. Home. That illusive place I've spent - now - almost half my life searching for. Strange what I just realized - my life is split in two nearly identical, yet vastly dissimilar, halves. The half I was Home and the half I've spent searching.
Maybe that bodes well for me. 24 years doing each. With my 48th year approaching (often more rapidly that I'd like to acknowledge), maybe, just maybe, I'll find my way Home. Finally. As an adult. Then I can spend the next half of my life - 48 years - at Home.
Wherever the Hell that is. I still don't know. I guess I know where it's not. Austin. Texarkana. Muskegon. I've lived in those places and try as I might (ok, admittedly I didn't always try very hard), none of them felt like Home. I should try harder? I guess my issue is that when it's Home, it shouldn't require a whole lot of trying. It should just...well...be Home.
Recently, I traveled to a place that I think might be it. Home. Home at last. I really don't know, but of all the places I've been in the last 24 years of searching, it feels the closest. I suppose we'll have to see.
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