Hometown.
“No man ever steps in the same river twice. For it's not the same river and he's not the same man.” — Heraclitus
Some things don’t change: a container of strawberries at Whole Foods still feels ridiculously overpriced but paying for a drip coffee at Starbucks is oddly reasonable even when I could make the exact same cup in my kitchen for a fraction of the cost.
Some things do: I’m no longer entirely sure where to call “home base.”
I used to think it would always be the Twin Cities but now…I just don’t know. In the handful of years since I’ve been gone, life has moved on. Friends have had babies who are now toddlers that I’ve never even met. Other friends have moved away. And even Chino Latino permanently shut its doors two years ago. (Of course, we’ve been too old for Chino Latino for at least a decade now, but there was always some comfort in knowing that its sequins still gleamed just brightly enough for a nostalgic happy hour if the mood ever struck.)
So where is home?
Southeastern Idaho where Mom’s Grandma’s house is? There are certainly things to make it a strong contender: doctors willing to sneak us in for appointments even though we only swing through every 12-18 months or so, neighbors who keep tabs on our whereabouts, plus the comfortable slide into small-town living (which isn’t so bad, despite the lack of a Target).
Arizona? I suppose those ties are even stronger: library and voter registration cards and taxes and all the other things that say we’re residents.
Maybe it’s D.C. and its surrounds? Despite never having lived there, I was surprised at how comfortable it felt to be “back” while Joe did a few weeks of training earlier this summer. Not only was there all the comforts of home (yes, that includes Target), but there was also a critical mass of Foreign Service friends temporarily or semi-permanently in town at the same time. From ice creams with friends from our Brussels days to coffees with FS acquaintances that I’d only ever “met” virtually, I was able to keep Nicolas and I busy pretty much every day we were there. Of course, I was lucky; next time we’re through town, that same crowd will have shifted. (As we do.)
All of the pondering got me to thinking…
Maybe “home” is bigger than any one place. I’ve long said that it’s where my art is up on the walls but I’m starting to wonder if it’s only there. Maybe home is in the space between a hug with a friend I haven’t seen in months or even years. Or floating across the table as my in-laws and I bless our evening meals with two different versions of the same grace. Maybe home is in the phone calls with Grandma Lucy who I don’t get to see nearly enough. Or in the texts to my sisters-in-law that keep us all updated on family news.
And maybe if I stopped worrying so much about where home really is, I can be more at home wherever it is in the world that I find myself.
