home is getting more and more ambiguous for me. not because i’m currently displaced, but because what or where i consider home has shifted over the years and not true replacement has taken hold.

when i was in college home was easily my folk’s house. houston. that was where my stuff was…where i went for holidays. houston was home up until i returned from south africa. that was when i noticed the subtle changes of not only “my house” but how i felt about the house. my folks had rearranged stuff…boxed up things and stored them in closets and the attic. stuff was taken off the walls and they were painted.

and even though the house still stores a good bit of my stuff (more so after katrina) i feel more guest than i ever have now. proof that it is time for me to put down roots of my own…make my own home for others to visit.

only i’m not ready yet.

i don’t know where i’d like to live for more than two or three years. i can’t picture dropping $1000 on a solid piece of furniture that only i have owned in life. i’m about to turn 30 and everything i own fits into my childhood bedroom. evrything i need fits in the backseat of my car.

i have to admit the feeling is a bit uneasy. homeless for lack of finding of home.

and i’m lucky…my sister and my brother in law share theirs with me with nothing but welcoming arms – my parents continue to do so just as they have over the last 29 years. but my own…my own place or respite…a place to hang photos, store memories, invite others to take refuge…i don’t have that yet.

it is my choice. i realize that. it is a choice i make every time i pack a bag and a passport and jump on a plane…a choice i enjoy…but a choice that makes my time in the states feel much different than it ever has.

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