Aug 17 2012

The gypsy.

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.