Home is where you hang your hat. Home is where they have to take you in, if you have to go there. It’s in your heart. It’s with your family….
As I type, I am in the kitchen of the Backpackers Hostel in Ensenada, Mexico. I’m drinking tea, munching on a dark chocolate Milky Way. It occurs to me that I am capable of making myself ‘at home’ just about anywhere in the world. But, I’ve been seven years on the road. Seven years!
A year or so ago I began to long for my own home, to make a place for me again. I want my art on the walls, mementos of my trips, photos of my family and friends, a pot of tomatoes, some herbs, a bunch of red geraniums trailing over a wall, or porch railing, the smell of laven
der, a hammock, a clothes line, the freedom to be naked if the mood strikes, if it’s sufficiently warm out.
It never occurred to me when I sold my house that I would miss it. Then again, maybe it’s not the house I miss. I began to travel a couple of years after my son died. Maybe its him I miss. Perhaps it’s my friends: belonging, the comfort of being accepted-warts and all. It’s being around like-minded, folks who care about each other-who care about me.
A couple of months ago I packed Margaret, my Mini, and headed across the US back to California. At present I am at Brandon’s in Venice where I lived over a decade-longer than anywhere I’ve ever lived. But, Venice is congested, and expensive, and the mountains are calling me. The music my talented friends play, beckons. The warmth of affection, solitude to write, hiking trails, laughter.
A couple of weeks ago, I was back in Tehachapi and Kernville. Being there was easy. Being with friends is that: easy. Uncomplicated. I’m ready for easy; knowing the language, where the post office is, biking to the bank. I’m ready to resume my soirées, St. Patrick’s day parties; ready to write more, maybe finally get the one woman show underway, the books published, to hang out with old friends, make a few new ones, to make a home for me again.