Which Way is Home?

I’ve had a tough time focusing lately. Life has been landing some hard swings for a while, and we feel beat up. Waaah! (It’s exhausting out here sometimes, isn’t it?!) Refocusing during life’s dragdowns usually isn’t an issue for me, as I’m a workhorse-head-down-breath-later kinda person. Even keel-ness is my factory default. Being married to a man whose default is more akin to experiencing the complete lunar tide cycle on repeat and at warp speed means it’s also key to how we navigate general life together. I’ve been unsuccessful in slowing the crashing waves in my head, and after a solitary hike (at my beloved madman’s behest) overlooking The Pacific Ocean, I think I know why.

Before nomadic life, we always had a refuge when the onslaught of everyday living gets overwhelming. Owning a traditional home and, in our case, lots of acres to buffer and hide, was a haven that made us feel safe and calm, even when bleeding us dry. (Talk about a MasterClass, hah! Also, I shouldn’t joke because [what was] our 200-year-old farmhouse is definitely haunted, did not want to give us up, and will come looking for me if I’m not careful.) Owning a house is a relatively safe place to spend your money, plus we put our hearts and souls into building what we thought would be our forever. No matter how foolish it was to believe that, it was grounding in a way not much else is. Living in a centuries-old home, being part of its history, gave us a sense of stability and permanence. We not only sold our property, we sold it with almost everything— our furniture, our treasures from global travel, our throw rugs, wall art, yard tools and machinery, you name it. (Colan and I joke that one might assume we were taken Rapture-style after seeing what we left.) It allowed the freedom to change everything drastically, but at a cost we won’t fully know, maybe ever? Depending on the day, it can feel like starting fresh or starting over.

Selling everything was unbelievably liberating, as you might guess. But it’s also inherently risky, particularly at our age. (“Our age,” how dare you!) We now live in a depreciating asset that isn’t built to exacting standards and has been problematic at best. While it technically has everything we need in our simplified-yet-inherently-more-risky lifestyle, it never feels permanent. We refer to our rig as “home” wherever it’s parked, but how can it be if I can’t fully trust it to shelter and protect us? It’s hard to get attached when the prevailing opinion is that fifth wheels are “old” at about three years. Life’s problems are the same (too much to think life on wheels can keep them from finding us?) but sometimes nomadic life makes them feel more… daunting? More ominous? Like there’s nowhere to hide, nowhere to hunker.

On the upside, redefining the already nebulous concept of home helps solve this new problem of mine. Yes, of course, “home” can refer to a physical place we inhabit, but it can also mean many other things, like the people we love and feel most comfortable with. It can be virtual, philosophical, ever-changing. I’m training myself to see “home” as a state of mind. It’s where my need for both adventure and stability find balance. Yesterday’s hike by myself (I only got lost in thought, yay!) reframed my outlook and stopped the deafening drumbeats of Vulnerability and Chaos. Nature has a way of recentering. Alone in its vastness, draped with sunshine and heady smells of Christmas and honeysuckle (that I want to bathe in for eternity, and I hate baths), I was finally able to catch my breath and focus. Looking out over a neverending ocean, I could only think I am home. This is home. And I’m bound and determined to pack it all up and bring it wherever we go next, just gotta make some room first.

Wherever you are, however you are, whomever you’re with, I hope it feels like home!— CL