If my life has been hectic lately, it has come to a sudden stop this morning. I’ve been taking deep breaths and big gulps of water as I’m breathing in the slower pace and swallowing the thoughts of impending change. It’s almost like driving along a familiar road—a road you’d thought you had all figured out and could predict the bumps and turns—and then SMASH! Another car hits you. That’s basically how you can sum up life. A series of figuring out the road only to get hit by a car and then another car and then once again another car.
Because, let’s face it: life is full of change. Sometimes expected change, but mostly unexpected change. Even the expected change can kind of hit you right between your eyes.
Sitting in my car, staring at the red light, I had the overwhelming feeling that I just didn’t want to be there. It’s a weird feeling, I suppose it is common to everyone. It was just this sort of unsettling feeling that I was existing, only passing time from clocking in to clocking out. Please don’t misunderstand me—I am so grateful to be where I am and can already see that I’ve grown a lot this summer (and isn’t life about growth?), but there is still this feeling like I’m just straddling between places—between home and not home. Pretty much every weekend this month I will have stayed in four (five if you count Kansas City) completely different places (Louisville, Wichita, Joplin, and finally North Dakota). It’s not that I’m really living out of a suitcase, but I also don’t feel like I have my feet firmly planted anywhere. Part of that’s exciting, but part of it makes me uneasy.
I think home is a lot more than location. It is a feeling. It is being with people who you have this undeniable connection with. It is the time with people that enriches your soul. You feel at home more than just being at home. At least that’s what I’m coming to find. Home is, yes, the place where there is a bed, but home is more than the place you receive mail. Home is the waking up in the morning and drinking coffee as I’m sitting next to my mother reading the newspaper. Home is knowing you sweat like a pig (do pigs even sweat a lot? Is that really the expression? Or is this like the time I thought the expression “nip it in the bud” was really “nip it in the butt”?) and having no one judge you for it. Home is being able to get into the garage door. Home is the feeling you get when you’re holding someone’s hand and it just feels like it fits (not like they are just cutting off your circulation).
And I’m not home right now.