why home?

I recently received a disturbing text from my sister: “When are you coming home?” she asked.  HOME?  Wrought with the frustration of my never-ending pursuit for the “what” or even “where” that is next, my reaction was nearly volatile.  I don’t have a home…at least not in the traditional sense:

•    If your home is where your “stuff “ is, then my home is a POD stored in a warehouse located somewhere in the sprawl outside of Raleigh, NC.
•    If your home is where you keep what is not in storage, then my home is on Lake Wateree at my sister and brother-in-law’s lake house.  This is one of the most peaceful places in the world, but you must drive at least 30 miles to the nearest civilization.
•    If your home is where you get your mail, my home is also with my sister and brother-in-law, but at their other house in Columbia.  I have not spent one night there since I forwarded my mail from Vail to this address.
•    If your home is where you spent the last 21 nights, then my home is with my cousin and her precious (or is it precocious?) daughter, who was born on my 30th birthday. Think “Two and a Half Women,” and the comedy is written before your eyes.
•    If your home is where you spend the majority of your time, then my home is my Subaru Outback (with North Carolina Tags and Taxes, paid via my Colorado PO Box), driven nearly 5000 miles in 6 weeks (split between a District of Columbia Driver’s License and another from South Carolina).  This is not a joke, and it confuses me too.
•    If your home is where your parents are, then my homes include one house in Orangeburg, just a stone’s throw from the two others I grew up in, and one in Charleston, which I share with two West Highland Terriers, who are almost as spoiled as my sister and I were as little girls (and still are, to be truthful.)
•    If your home is the property you own, then my home (in DC) is occupied by a 28-year old male working in the political technology sector, and my home has cracked windows, a broken dishwasher, and an AC on its very last leg, none of which I can afford to repair or replace.
•    If your home is where you are moving next, then my home is NYC, Mexico, Bali, Vail, New Orleans, Los Angeles, Honduras, who knows?

Since I graduated from high school in Orangeburg, SC, I cannot recall the last place I really called home.  I have “lived” in, Winston-Salem (6 different addresses), Vienna, Murnau, Arapahoe, Charlotte (2 addresses), Greenville (2 addresses), Charlottesville (3 addresses), Sonoma, Crownsville, Washington, DC, Durham, Vail (3 addresses), Columbia (2 addresses), Winnsboro, and Charleston.  These do not include the 100s of Cities I lived in for 2-8 week periods during my tenure in the software industry.

So when I quiet my mind and consider what was seemingly a disheartening question, the answer is clear.  My heart is my home, for despite my wandering, confusion, and chaos, I always find a home with myself, albeit crazy.  After all, it seems I am destined to the life of a vagabond.

Still, my soul is nostalgic, and there is some comforting peace found in the memories of the one-story ranch on Cherry Street, the Gazebo on Wells Drive, the hammock at Debordieu, the roof deck above my 390sf condo, the porches of 1600 Grady, the train (that woke me 4x/night) behind my Durham loft, my morning view of the Rockies, the little lake at the foot of the Alps, the egrets and bald eagles who visit me on Lake Wateree, my secret Kirche (church) in Vienna, the CNC lab of Campbell Hall…

These are but a few of the places and images that I carry with me, the places that I call home.  They are testament to the fact that home is where the heart is, and that, as a word of self-encouragement, he who wanders is not lost.  These places are part of the Hurricane (as, I suppose, I am aptly called), the storm who left a trail behind her.

One must understand exactly what I mean, and yet, it is so easy to take these memories for granted, or worse, to forget.  Hence, myheartmyhome is born:  to remind myself and to remind you of the places that our hearts call home, to recall the memories of those homes, and to encourage the preservation of these images and their stories.

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