It was once said to me, “one travels through many villages to reach home.”
My mom said, “Home is where you hang your hat.”
Her borrowed expression best fit our ex-pat lifestyle of going from dessert to jungle to oil town. Still, 67 years later, my mom calls Australia home. She was born there. She became a young adult there.
I was born while my parents and sister were traveling to NYC to catch a ship back to Venezuela. Around Kansas City, Missouri it became clear we’d miss the boat.
The last 4 years I have called two cities home and at other times consiously avoided saying “home,” even casually. For as long as I can remember, a nest builder has cohabitated with a gypsy in my soul.
What I know is a sense of being able to fit in most places but always being, often feeling, a visitor, a traveler – someone drifting a bit, as one would do without an anchor.
Some people belong to places. I travel to places, exploring what each offers. It is time to do more.
This fall I tweak my two-city monthly commute from Portland and Tulsa to live in Tulsa, where my livelihood is, where I know the landscape and participate the most in the community, where I have family and friends I’ve known longer.
Already I am plotting and scheduling returns to Portland. It may never be home but it feeds my soul and imagination as I walk its streets. This move will change my routine a bit and give me the opportunity to do what I especially like – building a new nest that, with luck, will hatch something beyond my imagination. I can always hope. And I do.