Where is home?

I usually start my post with a catch up of where I am now. Today I feel like getting a bit more abstract.

Where is home?  A title of a book I’d happily write if I gave myself the time, but maybe the real question for me should be, can one find a feeling of home, within movement?

It seems every time I try to settle in, it isn’t me. It isn’t natural. I’ll rearrange the furniture over and over again. Ill browse the other options, maybe a boat, or a floating home, maybe a bigger van? Settling into a space, always seems to be more unsettling than it is meant to be. Maybe after a certain amount of time, or a lifetime, of constantly uprooting and rerooting, I’ve adapted to the movement.

Growing up with a military brat as a mom and a navy man as a father( who wasn’t really involved), we became pro travellers and movers. We packed in and packed out. We could manically move everything out in a day without stopping. We could sleep on the floor and roll up our mats in the morning and carry on. As soon as I learned how to pee outside, no one could stop me! (There might have been a parent teacher conference about that). We adapted to our environment, and we thrived! It was always an adventure, and through a series of little heartbreaks and great ones, we learned how to let go easier every time.

I have a memory from when I had just turned 5, my mother had finished acquiring her Master’s degree in San Diego, and I lived with my Grandma and Grandpa Lee on a large ranch in the desert of New Mexico. I remember how I had made friends with all the animals. There was one pony that I just adored. She was a black beauty, Ebonita Princess, they had named her. She was my mother’s horse’s foul, and one of the first live births I had been fortunate enough to witness. Anyways, I was completely heartbroken when I had to leave her. My mother had finished her degree in Geology, and got a job in Houston right away it seemed. So she came to pick me up, accompanied by her new boyfriend, whom I later called Dad.

Although at that age, there is no real perception of time, or at least, it’s different. I was young, but this was my first clear memory, driving in the car, with all of our belongings. I had a nook in the backseat and I remember staring up at the stars as we kept driving, thinking of that horse. Somehow, the stars comforted me. It was like counting sheep, that always showed up in the darkest hour. I could always rely on the stars.

Fast forward, and it seems like my life since then has been on the road, from that first house on autumn meadow lane, to that big house on ryanwood crescent, to the post-divorce apartment complex A, post-divorce apartment complex B, Dad’s new home/relationship, to the hotel in foreign country (Canada), to temporary house in Canada,to  temporary house in Indiana, to new home in Alberta, new home in Indiana, to year one university in Vancouver with roommates in shared house, back to home in Alberta, shared apartment with roomates in Vancouver, shared house with family on Salt Spring,  my own apartment in Vancouver, now shared, shared house with family on Salt Spring, shared temporary house on Salt Spring, shared basement suite on Salt Spring, in my van on Salt Spring, my own basement suite on Salt Spring, shared housing temporarily on Salt Spring, in my van on Salt Spring, home in Alberta, shared basement suite on Vancouver Island, and now again here I am in my van on Vancouver Island, soon to be back in the apartment in Vancouver, and then it’s unknown. 

Of course this wont be the last place I live, and Im sure as soon as I finish becoming a citizen, I’ll be off to a different continent. But for now, my focus is on moving. Moving forward, maybe making a few wrong steps backwards, then realizing where I was headed and smiling and laughing at myself along the way.

Im infatuated with the idea that I can find a home in movement. Somehow it wraps my mind in comfort and I feel at peace with knowing that all I have, is all I need. All I want is to be with myself and my pup. I take care of our basic needs, and I feed my soul with creativity the way I craved to do. Learning to play guitar, singing along to the Beatles cd I’ve played on repeat, reading Edgar Allan Poe at night to the warm glow of a string of fairy lights, doodling on my sketch books, drinking plenty of wine, and waking up and hiking to the tops of mountains, to the edge of oceans, down forest trails, and then sipping on caramel macchiatos, and eating smoked salmon breakfast sandwiches, while I write about what’s been on my mind.

I don’t feel like a victim, Im not going to blame anyone for putting me here. Im thankful that I am who I am. I was raised to adapt, and Im more comfortable living life in the now, then sitting on a couch daydreaming of where I’d rather be. THIS IS THE LIFE, right here, right now. 

One thought on “Where is home?

  1. After three months on the road calling the motorhome and the latest campsite home, I cried when we got back. I’ve always known this is how I wanted to live and finally found someone who will join me without complaining. Around every corner was a new adventure. All of them small and to some they would be considered insignificant. Each one brought me joy. May you find joy in the adventures you are given.


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