Home.
An impossibly long mill stands abandoned in the center of town. Its many broken windows - some by time and others by force - add to its immutable presence. As I pass by this menacing landmark, I vow to myself one day I’ll be brave enough to find a way inside. On the other side of the street is a small pond that freezes over in the winter and offers casual swimming lessons in the summer from its shore. Too small to skate in the winter, I scoot around in my snow boots. Too afraid to venture into its waters in the summer, I try, and fail, at one or two swim lessons. My house is only steps away, and somehow I manage to get far enough away from it one day that my grandmother has to call a taxi to bring us home (in fairness, I think she was just being kind and sympathetic to me, the wimpy whiny kid). I’ve made snow angels (and even a snow pillow) in the yard during the long winters. I’ve braved the backyard forest (in hindsight a small patch of well-spaced, adolescent trees) to visit neighbor friends on the other side. The backyard deck that once hosted a sleeping bag meteor shower viewing party for my whole family is long gone. In fact even when it remained, we didn’t own it. This place will, however, always be mine.
It’s morning, but the dark side of morning. The part (I think to myself as I’m awakened too early) where no one should be conscious. But here I am, listening to the assembled voices of 40 children singing songs of praise and worship before I’ve even opened my eyes to start the day. No sound has ever been sweeter, no alarm clock more welcome. The largest Ebola outbreak in recent history has kept me, along with a large group of Americans, confined to the walls of an orphanage for our 2 week Liberian visit. The night we arrived, our host worked to get the generator going in the main house so we could have some electricity (not that anybody else there needed it). As he worked, a precession of excited children followed him with encouraging chants. The first attempt to start the generator failed, but the encouraging chant precession was undeterred. The generator sputtered on the second try and our host entered the main house to test the light switch, precession in tow. With the flip of a switch, one small overhead light illuminated as the children filled the room with an eruption of joy. I know I am exactly where I am supposed to be, and I realize for the first time how very little I need.
It’s a perfectly gloomy, melancholy fall day. I’ve taken a “sick” day long before mental health days were en vogue. Overwhelmed with the weight of too many things, too heavy to carry on my own, I stroll through Central Park and find myself at Bethesda Fountain. It’s nearly deserted, except as I enter the Bethesda Terrace Tunnel I hear a familiar hymn, seemingly sung by an angel. A street performer in bright red pants is posted up against a column, singing the most beautiful rendition of Amazing Grace I’ve heard before or since. Tears well up in my eyes as I pass by. I am home.
I watched helplessly years before as the Twin Towers fell from the sky and now, I find myself daily looking over the progress of their rebirth. As I train for a race or simply try and blow off some steam after a long work day, my gym’s balcony overlooks the reflection pools that memorialize lives lost. Perched from my bedroom window, I gaze out at the expanse that is New York City. I’m still completely confounded as to how I ended up here, sharing a building with Jeremy Lin (at the peak of Linsanity). Like a live, better version of F-R-I-E-N-D-S my co workers, who have become some of my dearest friends, are all in my building or a few blocks away. We know each other’s stories and we share meals and experiences. We co-work in each other’s apartments and we explore the city together. We’re the kings and queens of the world for a moment.
The waves of the Atlantic toss me back and forth and the rays of the sun on her shores change my skin from pale to tan, the badge of my Summer freedom. Except it’s the middle of the year. Long walks and sharks teeth gathered. In my tie dyed Joe’s Crab Shack tee and Roxy flip flops, sand and salt in my hair, I cruise A1A with my windows down and take in the sights, sounds, and smells of the ocean. When her waves get too choppy or I don’t have enough gas money, I settle for a flat bottom boat on the river. I won’t realize until much later in my life what a gift it is to be so closely linked to all this water, guarded by eternal summer. Everywhere I turn it’s greeting me in this quietly beautiful River City. Moss hangs from the enduring oak trees on my neighborhood strolls. Rain is never far but rarely lingers. As the rest of the country pokes fun at the complicated land of Florida, we natives simply enjoy the view.
It’s January, or maybe February. My GPS is taking me from one distant land to another in my tiny rental car. Surrounded by the biggest sky I’ve ever seen, I watch thunderstorms in the distance form. Bemused, I can see the storm system in its entirety, and yet it will never touch me on this stretch of highway. If I weren’t so excited to get to my destination, I’d stay on this road as far as it would take me and enjoy this beautiful land all around me. Cows and Longhorns and more Schlotzky’s Deli’s than I’ve ever seen my life greet me all along the way. The topography appears in technicolor; almost like when Dorothy entered Oz from her sepia Kansas shack. I’m totally unfamiliar with this landscape, but in my heart I know I am home.
I counted it up recently: I’ve had 24 addresses in my lifetime. Twenty four. That means I’ve moved 23 times (and hopefully not too many more). Sojourning is my birthright; my great grandparents were traveling people who boarded out and lived in tents at the turn of last century.
This may explain the thought that’s been floating around in my mind the last several weeks about home: it’s nowhere and everywhere. My picture of home (and probably yours, too, if you thought long enough about it) doesn’t immediately include an address. Or maybe it does, but only to the extent that the experiences in that address exist. It’s people. Food. Sights. Sounds. Memories. This is what makes travel so special; it takes us to places we didn’t know were already home, with people we didn’t know were family. I am not an Italian citizen, but I can tell you that Cremona, Venice, and the Imperial Palace are part of my home. I can’t explain it, it’s just soul-level knowledge.
I recently met with a client planning what I thought was the perfect trip. Their priorities were:
1) a house big enough to fit 12 people comfortably in reasonable proximity to their favorite zoo
2) a car big enough to transport them all
That’s it. Obviously, I’m a travel agent, so I asked if they were looking for more activities. You know what she said? “No, we’re just looking forward to being together as a family.”
That’s home, and you know what else? That’s travel! It doesn’t have to be family, and it doesn’t have to be far. It’s something new, or something different and it’s about togetherness.
This doesn’t have to apply to families only. I’m thinking of 2 people right now as I write this who will plan solo vacations to far off places and they always come back with stories of the people they met and the relationships they formed.
As I reflect on the trips I’ve taken this year and as I consider the ones yet to come, I want to share and encourage you, dear reader, with this:
Travel to learn. Travel to grow. Travel to connect.- with yourself and with the world around you. It’s so vast, we’ll never find the end of it in our lifetime, and I love that. You may find plenty of social currency photos along the way, but they will in no way be the most enriching part of the trip. They won’t even be what endures the longest. What will endure, if you’re looking for it, is belonging. Travel to find more of your home. May your home be vast and evolving.
Happy Roaming!
