The problem with literary phrases is that sometimes you wish they were true. "You can never go home again," is one that always echoes through my mind. Probably because it's a cliche and that is in the nature of cliches.
I went "home" this weekend, and on the drive out there I could feel my insides unhook, untangle, and I could begin to breathe. I didn't realize I was holding my breath. Just like when you discover you've fallen in love. A long awaited exhale you didn't know you were waiting for. This feeling of relief brought along an anxiety -- this is a place I've moved away from, and that I have to continue to pull myself away from as I grow and expand and as those people who make it home leave (in one way or another).
I'm grateful for the arms around my shoulder, the acceptance that I felt, the knowledge that though change happens in my life, there are those who knew me before who accept it along with me.
I hope that I can build a new home. And I mourn the slow loss of this old.
Showing posts with label home. Show all posts
Showing posts with label home. Show all posts
Monday, October 31, 2011
Sunday, September 4, 2011
of scenery
Finding a home is a difficult thing. A few weeks ago, I traveled to Salt Lake City with my former boss and good friend, S Morgan. I had an interview, and she had to go house hunting. The interview went really well.
As we drove from Pleasant Grove to Brigham City and searched condos, houses, and half-a-doubles, I was trying to imagine trading in a home I've made into a safe haven for some unknown. With noisy neighbors. Less square footage.
I've had several places that were home to me. A drafty narrow house built on the side of a river bank in Pennsylvania. A crowded apartment that smelled like stale spices in Idaho. Somewhere between two parking lots at the base of a hill in a teeny tiny town. And a young man's arms.
Each place had been hard to leave, and though I may sometime revisit each, it's never the same. There's been transition periods in between, sometimes lasting years. I know that I have out grown places. I don't know where my next home will be. My stuff is in storage in a different town. And my bed is wherever I can stretch out.
But a job is a good start. Thanks for the welcome, SLC.
As we drove from Pleasant Grove to Brigham City and searched condos, houses, and half-a-doubles, I was trying to imagine trading in a home I've made into a safe haven for some unknown. With noisy neighbors. Less square footage.
I've had several places that were home to me. A drafty narrow house built on the side of a river bank in Pennsylvania. A crowded apartment that smelled like stale spices in Idaho. Somewhere between two parking lots at the base of a hill in a teeny tiny town. And a young man's arms.
Each place had been hard to leave, and though I may sometime revisit each, it's never the same. There's been transition periods in between, sometimes lasting years. I know that I have out grown places. I don't know where my next home will be. My stuff is in storage in a different town. And my bed is wherever I can stretch out.
But a job is a good start. Thanks for the welcome, SLC.
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