the notion of home has always been less place and more people. a military brat traipsing with my family hither and yon, the word home has always conjured up the faces of my parents and sister assembled hodge podge on my parents’ bed. it never mattered where the bed was, only that we were all there.

the first time it wasn’t home was upon my return from new zealand. my experiences, my heart, had expanded and invited someone else in and so home was less finite than my nuclear family.

it has since had to retract (love never dies but sometimes it takes a permanent sabbatical to a place that is simply away), but the experience shuffled my notion of home. when i arrived in the bay i was already smitten by the weather and quirkiness of the people, the old architecture and the natural beauty. i assumed i’d like oakland but didn’t consider much beyond that. how was i to know this place would seep into me  and feel like the place i’m supposed to be?

home as actual location? how could it be?

and yet i find myself with favorite eating spots, and places of refuge. i know my neighborhood and the homeless people nearby have personalities. i have friends for any occasion…any…

and so today, beaten down by circumstance, i found myself on the floor of my friend’s kitchen, eating rich delicious brownies, playing with a cat-like dog, and laughing in spite of myself.

and it isn’t an anomaly. this whole week. hell, any given week, i can find myself amidst the laughter of friends, nestled in the comfort of people who haved settled themselves into the rhythm of my life. and i love it. it scares me, but i love it.

such a silly thing to fear, but i’ve never been married to a place. military at my roots, every two to four years is reason enough to pack up my whole life and try something new. and while i often miss people, place always seemed arbitrary.

only now it doesn’t. now my apartment fits me and is my refuge from the world beyond my antique glass. now understanding ways to get around the city are less novelty and more roots. now the people feel a part of the place. or maybe for once the place feels a part of the people.

and it scares me that i feel so connected. i’m fearful that it feels so fragile. i’m amazed that i care.

but i do.

this spring i discovered a park not far from my house. and when the weather is nice i can take a blanket and a book and contemplate the magnolia tree providing shade or listen to a friend play the guitar to the frenzied fanfare of every toddler in the park…and that feels as homey as anything…feels as homey as everything here.

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1 Comment on home

  1. dtang says:

    It’s good to have roots in the end… that’s what I believe, no matter how nomadic we are.

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