I’m sitting over the heat vent on the floor next to a window. I’m in Washington and it’s cold here. Summer came and left last week. I suspect it will be back, but for now it’s raining. I used to sit in this same spot and write. I used to make lists here too and plot out my life of perfection.
This is not the house I grew up in (there isn’t just one of those). We moved here the Summer after I finished high school. I took off for college a few weeks later, but then came back to finish my last three years locally. There’s so much said about childhood homes, but what about the one you lived in when you discovered all of the things you love and became the person you are?
Not that I feel particularly nostalgic for this place. Home used to come with such heavy baggage and now it’s just a nice vacation away from the real and a place to spend time with those people I’m forever connected to. I don’t get homesick or sad or wish I was here when I’m living my life in California. I’m happy there. I needed a place to go and figure things out for myself.
But, I don’t have it figured out. Sitting by this window like I used to, I have this strange confidence I’ve always had that if I just think about something long enough, I’ll understand it. But the longer I think, the more things become about feelings and fiction, so I can’t remember anymore how it all really happened. I’m not sure whether to make up my mind to move on or just try harder.
I’m struck by how feelingless home has become now that I don’t live here and it doesn’t hold much power over me when I’m not here. I thought maybe things would become clearer to me just being away and they haven’t. That’s for the best, I think. Now I can enjoy being with my family, seeing the few friends who haven’t taken off for other parts of the country, and spending time in a really beautiful place.
I have an amazing family. The solid kind of people you don’t have to worry about all the time. The kind who make it possible to go live anywhere you want and occupy yourself with dreams and introspection. The kind who are there for you if you need anything, but are otherwise willing to let you live the way you want.
Thinking about all the things I’ve done since I last spent long hours sitting here writing, I’m optimistic. If you can come home and be proud of all the things you’ve done since you were last there, then you must be on to something. Especially if you’re a hyper self-critical, anxious, kind of perfectionist. I’m going to be okay.
I leave tonight and there’s a lot of coffee still left to drink.
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There’s so much I want to say to this, but it’s way too early and I haven’t had my coffee yet. However, this post left me smiling. And the last line left me laughing. Sem-Par
Love this post.
I’m from Florida, though I’ve lived in Tennessee since 2001. When my paternal grandparents were still alive, going back left me wanting to stay there. Now, when I go back, I realize how much I miss the memories it used to hold … But I’m always ready to come back to my home in Tennessee.
I get this post. Now that my parents sold my childhood home, and I’ve moved a six-hour drive away, home is a tricky concept. I’ve found I’ve had to make my own definition of it.
I get exactly where you are coming from. And I always wondered if it was just me that felt this way, this sense of attachment and yet detachment at the same time. Sort of happy to see I’m not alone here.
“I have an amazing family. The solid kind of people you don’t have to worry about all the time. The kind who make it possible to go live anywhere you want and occupy yourself with dreams and introspection. The kind who are there for you if you need anything, but are otherwise willing to let you live the way you want.”
Never forget how lucky you are to have a family unit like this. I only wish I felt the same way.
When I read your posts it always makes me think that maybe it IS possible for me to have my shit together…you make it look easy even though I know it isn’t always. :)