If you know me, then you probably know that I love to travel. It doesn’t even really matter where I’m going or if I’ve been there before. New places are preferred, of course, but I’ve been to some really cool places and I wouldn’t mind going back.
The upside to this is the sheer adventure of it all. The variety, the stories, the things I’ve learned, the pictures I’ve taken, the things I’ve eaten (because, believe me, you don’t have to try very hard to find strange food).
The downside is that no place feels consistently like home.
As a kid, I moved around a lot. Mostly between two cities in central Texas, mind you, but still. There isn’t a specific house or city that feels like my childhood.
I remember meeting a girl when I was 11 years old who had lived in the same house all her life. I couldn’t even imagine it. I remember asking her why, because surely they were doing something wrong.
I have no concept of remaining in the same place simply because it’s all you’ve ever known or done or it’s tradition or whatever.
The places I’ve lived have all left a special little mark on me. I have loved and appreciated and experienced them all differently.
There is just something in me that is slightly nomadic.
Remember when I wrote about life moving in seasons, or bubbles? I think that – at least for me – part of those bubble-seasons coordinate with physical location.
The reason I think this is true is because different places have felt like home to me at different times.
When S and I were driving back to our little basement apartment from our Christmas break, I felt like we were home when we got back into town.
It made me smile.