Home is Where the Heart Is

Before sitting down to write this post, I thought to myself, "Wow. I've been pretty self-obsessed lately."

That thought was immediately followed by, "Well, duh. A blog is somewhat self-obsessed by its very nature."

So I decided I was going to continue on my current path of self-obsession for just a bit longer.

Bear with me.

I got a text last night from my friend Matt.

"How are you feeling about the move?"

"Like I'm getting ready to jump out of an airplane. And trust me. I'm not someone who thinks that sort of thing is fun."

"Well, the plane is crashing. Jump or die."

When it's put that way...

I guess it's time to jump.

You're probably wondering why I've been a ball of stress over this move. It's not like millions of people don't move every day. And it's not as if I haven't moved before. I have. Many, many, many times.

I was born to nomads. Gypsies. Wanderers. Until my parents bought their house in Washington, it was unusual for us to live in the same place longer than a year. As soon as the dust settled from one move, their feet would itch to go somewhere new.

When I left home, I kept up the habit. I moved every year or two, changing roommates and towns. I never learned to put down roots. Everything I owned could be packed in three days. Everything I owned could be unpacked in two. It was unsettling for me, drifting through life and houses. Never was home four walls and a roof. Home was my books, my friends.

Then, I met Chad and found a new home. We moved in, shortly after our wedding. Tentatively, I put my feet into the ground. Roots sprouted. I knew, someday, I'd move. I looked forward to a place with a bit of land. But I always knew I'd be home. After all, wasn't Chad home?

My house seems to understand that something is happening. If homes have energy, mine is tired. Two drawers have broken in the last week. The garage door isn't coming down on its own. There's a crack in the bathroom tile. The stove top has two large stains that refuse to be scrubbed off. The toilet is running. The front gate is hanging crooked on its hinges. One sink has developed a drip.

Is the house crying, do you think? In sadness or relief?

My garden is a mess. The chickens have flung dirt everywhere, the plants are dying and without weekly care, it's looking forlorn and neglected rather than manicured.

How quickly nature takes over.

When I write next, it'll be from my new little house. It's a place that is going to be home. I don't know how long, but I've started to come to an understanding...

Houses are temporary. I'll live in the new house a year, two, maybe three. Then I'll move on, making a home where ever I happen to land. Home wasn't Chad. Home wasn't this place, the house which marks the longest time I've ever spent in one dwelling.

No...

If home is where the heart is, then my home is with two little red heads. They are, after all, my heart.