It’s been a long time since I’ve had a home. Ever since I left Portland last March, after selling everything I owned, I’ve essentially lived in places that weren’t truly mine. Some of them came to feel like mine — the flat in Scotland for sure (and, truly, I loved it so much that I wanted it to be mine!) — but none of them ever were. I am so incredibly grateful for the experience of traveling the world, of the places I’ve seen and the homes that I shared, for the friends and word-of-mouth that essentially passed me from hand-to-hand and home-to-home. And the people I’ve discovered and added to my life make me feel so lucky: N. and C. in Scotland, the women from Artsprings, my current housemates who are fantastically funny and honest and real and just amazing people to spend time with…
But I also realized something recently: It’s time for me to have a nest again. It’s not that I want to stop traveling. It’s that I want a place to come home to, a grounded space that is my own, filled with my own things and my own history and, perhaps mostly, my own books. I want to own something again, beyond what fits in my carry-on luggage. I want to have more than three outfits (and I want a closet to hang them in). I want kitchen tools and towels and sheets. Yes, feel free to call me crazy, but I am craving domesticity in way that I haven’t in a long time.
Soon, I’m heading off to a housesitting gig out in Aloha. A beautiful, creative, inspired space that belongs to a writer, her husband and their cat (mostly it belongs to the cat, I believe), and I’m very much looking forward to settling in there and seeing what words come while I’m in the space.
On the other side of that, though, I see a home. My home. A place that sighs when I enter, and that closes the world out when I shut the door. A place for breath and writing and dancing in the dark. A place for me.
Kiss kiss bang bang, s.