Where there is home, there is you.

In the past year, I have taken more than thirteen airplane rides spanning four countries and two continents.  I have driven two, 14-hour road trips, one more painful and tedious than the other, two ride shares in cars that smelled like smoked meat and McDonald’s respectively, one ferry and countless bus rides, subways and bicycles.   I have lived in apartments, condos, hostels and houses and have slept on floors, couches, air mattresses, monastery-sized Twins and California Kings.  So without even mentioning my carbon footprint, I think that it is within reason that I am starting to crave a place to call home.

Or at the very least, a stable place to leave things like winter boots in the summertime, the loaf pan that cooks my Gluten-Free banana bread, but for now there is no space and no time; a reprieve in which to lay down my yoga mat and my backpack and rest until the next adventure beckons or demands my attention.

All of my life, I have moved.  I’ve always been the new kid at school.  I’ve never had a friend that I’ve known since I was three, nor anyone that has seen me through puberty, or my first kiss, or the first time getting drunk on Colt 45 by the Eternal Flame; a natural gas leak in a littered field near my junior high school.  My oldest friend now was my boyfriend in high school and we only met when I was 16.

One day, I would like a garden.  And not window boxes that sport a few flowers for the sunny, summer months.  But one that grows and dies and grows again.

You’d think I’d be used to this by now.  But I’m tired.  Tired of schlepping and packing, cooking and planning for one, solo, me.  I’m longing for a massage at the end of the day, an invitation to share and discuss and be hugged.  And though this is reality, it is not a pressing concern.  With patience and in due time, I know.  Gulp! and dare I say this out loud, but I wonder if there may be a studio of my own in a West Coast locale somewhere out on my horizons.  (Oops), thar’ she blows, out into the Grand ‘ol You-Knee-Verse.  Thar’ she blows.

Let ‘er rip, yogi.  Let ‘er rip!

I have taught yoga in Montreal, Kentucky, Charlottetown and Los Angeles and the one thing that soothes my somedays-lonely-heart is that wherever I go, I find and create community.  It may not logistically take a village anymore, but isn’t it certainly more joyous with one??  It took me a very long time to realize that I actually played a part in that.  That there was no spontaneous coalescence, save but love and warmth and joy (and most often, food) which unites.   Trust me, I know the power of a home-cooked meal.  Somehow, I bring people together and they bring themselves to me.  The people that I have met along this path have changed me irreversibly and found a place to reside always inside my heart.  Every single one of you.  The enchantment of a granola bar, a plank, a radiator and good conversation, or the twangy accent of a certain blonde, Southern Belle; the fairy-like whimsy of a drug-toting gangster, or the erratic and spontaneous love of a wild and sexy Greek.

You have moved me and we have moved each other, and in our own ways, we move mountains every single day.

And if home is where the heart is, if home is where my heart is, then there is a mansion inside my ribcage and I’m hoping we can all have a sleep-over.

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1 Comment (+add yours?)

  1. Michael Reed
    May 05, 2012 @ 10:46:56

    You are always welcome in sunny Florida,

    xoxox,

    Dad

    Reply

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