Homeless

Not too many weeks ago, as some of you may remember, I found myself on vacation.  Toward the end of this glorious time off in the mountains it was suggested to me that I take an additional day off, a Friday, thus buying us that day and the additional weekend.  Also, suggested to me was that we take the extra time, leave the mountains and go to my “home town” as I had not been home town for quite some time. 

The idea of going “home” appealed to me, up until 100’ from the city limits. As always trepidation set in.  I would get to see my best friend to be sure.  I would get to see another best who is fighting the female version of my cancer and of course I would get to see my Mom and Dad. 

But this town, as my father bizarrely once told me during a visit a few decades ago as I was readying myself for a night out on the “small” town  “Remember Mike this town doesn’t like you.”   Young and stupid I didn’t get it then.  Old and stupid I sort of get it.

Unlike many of you who may have moved from place to place I was the Norman Rockwell kid that grew up in the town.  Sure, for the first years during the summer we would move to whatever site my Dad was engineer and  I truly got to live in some really really cool places and once a really really hot place called Yuma.  In reality, except for being born in Seattle, because rural Eastern Washington only had veterinarians at the time of my birth, I lived in the same town for all my formative years.  The farthest we moved was up the hill, three houses.

So on this visit to my home town, I found myself leaning against a hillside guard rail overlooking town.  Of a sudden, this feeling of absolute “I don’t belong here” over came me. I felt like an alien.  I’ve always told people here in the city “back home”, “I’m going home to see my parents.” “Back home…”  Suddenly  “back home” took on a startling new meaning. 

I was shocked.  To be sure I got to see two people whom I love one of which I count as my best friend of decades.  If you are fortunate enough to still have your parents in this space, which I am, then their home is a haven against all ill so there are two more people that I love beyond belief.   

But, as I looked over this town that no longer knew me from Frank Adam or John.  This town that could care less now that I did whatever I did that made news, gossip, and back room “can you believe that kid.”  I didn’t know this town I once called home and the town certainly had no clue whom I was.  I felt homeless.

My wife and I moved from rural to the city because of work.  I’ve lived here for over three decades and am still amazed that I live in the city.  Everyday whether during a commute or sitting in a Sushi-Bar I’m in wonderment that I live here yet I do not and will not call this place home.  It is where I live.  Recently in the light of health things I count my blessings that I do live here but it is not home.  This city doesn’t even remotely feel like home.

So where is home.  My kids think of our house as home or haven [I hope].  My wife thinks of our house as home [She’s built a beautiful place].  Yet I feel homeless.  I’ve been thinking hard about this for the last couple of weeks since returning from what I once called home.  I think I have the answer.

Home is where the heart is.  Good god, how many times have you heard that?  Our Grandmas embroidered that ad nauseam on pillows infinite.  But!  It is true.  Home is where your heart is and there is no way we can misplace our hearts.  If anything, with each passing day our hearts  become more defined.  Our hearts become more sure.  I know where my heart is.  I know where home is.  I’m the furthest thing from homeless.