Yesterday a good friend asked me if I felt like Prescott was home yet. It’s been ohhh… almost five months now since I moved to the midwest and the question left me with a lot to think about. After all:

“Home” in my phone is my parent’s house.

“Back home” in conversation is Albuquerque.

“Home” in everyday conversation is my duplex in Prescott.

“Home” when I’m feeling extra emotional is wherever Meredith happens to be.

“Home” when I say, “I just want a place to call home,” is something that does not exist yet. (Maybe it’s anywhere from which you can see the big dipper.)

There really isn’t a great answer- at least not right now. I immediately thought of a line from one of my favorite movies, French Kiss.

Kate: “…No matter what I might seem like tonight, it’s still the same old me from yesterday you’ll wind up with tomorrow. The same old me, who wants the home and the family, who wants to plant some roots and see them grow.”

Charlie: “You want to be a farmer?”

My roots were uplifted and I think they’re trying to get back into some soil. Roots can only last so long up in the open air. I’m doing my best to water them and nourish them, but it takes time. It takes the right place and the right moment. Sometimes it’s the stems that are stretching, while the roots stay firmly in place.

This is a lot of whimsical stuff I’m tossing around left and right. Sorry, but not sorry about that. It’s just that, I’m content with being anything but content. I’m okay with not being sure. I’ve accepted the mystery.

But every once in a while, if I’m really honest, I miss knowing. Or at the very least, I miss feeling like I knew… where I was headed, where I belonged and who would be there when I got home.

Here’s to waiting, patience, and the frustrating joy it is to live life, one absurd day at a time.

Love,
Lou (the nomad)