For so long now, I've subscribed to the old adage that you can't come home again, and within myself it felt like an absolute truth. I've spend years looking for my place in the world from the mountains of Western North Carolina to travels in Central and South America, from exploration all over the country to the Ganges in India, from towns in Tennessee to the foothills of California. All the while, I've returned again and again to the place of my birth. Every time with the same question, is this really my home? I've always carried inside of me a feeling that once I've found "my place," I'd know it, and I would live content and fulfilled for the rest of my days in this utopia made just for me. Silly, I know, but the yearning was fierce.
Calling California my "home" and watching my family thrive, I've continued to wonder (and wander), not quite feeling that unquestionable knowing that I've found my place in the world, while at the same time watching as my children and my man land with confidence and joy in this place. In order to support my family, I've undertaken a radical shift in perspective. For the first time ever, I've started seeking a home within myself. Spending time in silence getting to know my terrain, visiting long ago forgotten places, and cultivating a great appreciation for what I find. It's not been an easy journey, and it's far from over; but for the first time, I've traveled back to the home of my ancestors and to the home of my heart family, and I haven't questioned. I felt at home EVERYWHERE that I went. I didn't feel the desire to picture myself living in this place or that, and I did feel a deep connection to everyone and everything that has led me to where I am right now.
So, no matter where I roam (and I'm certain the roaming will continue), I know deep within that as long as I am home within myself, I am home anywhere I go.