home.

thirteen days.
I’ve been home for thirteen days, and so far, my summer accomplishments consist of watching multiple seasons of The Office and Greys Anatomy. Netflix will be the death of me. I have also unsuccessfully applied for upwards of 30 summer childcare jobs, registered for a distance learning calculus class just to drop it ten days later, and contemplated switching majors in attempt to find any hope for a future I'll be happy with.

my sister’s new cat peed on my luggage to warmly welcome me home.. so I have been unpacking straight into the washing machine instead of my dresser.. i have yet to finish doing so.

thirteen days, and equal parts of me feel completely adjusted and unwelcome.
it’s a strange thing, coming back home after your brain has learned to redefine the word entirely. home. What is home?

maybe it’s a transitionary thing. maybe it’s being in college, constantly moving to and from every few months. maybe it’s just the circumstances: having a large, open room for me in New York and coming back needing to sleep on the couch for the first few nights because my sister had yet to make a place for me in my own room. maybe it’s the fact that everyone seems to be so comfortable with everything here and i couldn’t possibly be farther from that.

thirteen days. i’ve only been home for thirteen days; but i feel like themes, or my imagination, or God himself is telling me that this is no longer the place for me. things aren’t happening for me here. I am called to move. from my heart, my spirit, from my God himself... I don’t know who or what, really. But if it is God, who am I to say no? not that there aren't times I feel at home. I do. but there's also an equal part of me that is pulling towards somewhere else.

maybe home isn't a place but a feeling. you collect it in little bits and pieces throughout your life from people, places, events. Some might be strongly tied in bundles to the same place or person. other slivers can just be found in an unexpected instance.
a friend of mine, Hosanna Wong, who I’d met last summer calls this notion homeful.

i feel as though maybe i’ve been holding on to some of these pieces of home for too long. grasping too tightly, idealizing the piece i remembered from when i first picked it up. and in turn i’m completely blind to the fact that this piece no longer fits, but i keep it in my hands, afraid to let it go..
 'cause it’s comfortable.
and i just might have missed the opportunity to pick up something that suits me better because of my inability to just let go. the fixation on staying comfortable. even if it’s no longer the truth, it’s always easier to hold on than to let go and start over. i get stuck in the mindset; the lie: i’m still comfortable. this is still home.

people change. it’s a hard idea to grasp just how much a person, a place, a memory can change sometimes, but they do. it happens; that’s life. sometimes you think you know a person, you pick them up and add them to your collection of home. time goes by and you realize their company no longer feels safe, honest, welcoming. it’s taken a while for me to actually find the sense enough realize this in some cases, and even longer for me to get rid of the dead weight.
my family will always be big pieces of home. many memories and places in my hometown are parts of home. my friends are precious pieces of home. but i’ve also got many other homes: at school, at church, in new york, california, on vacations, in college towns, and many other pieces i feel pulling at me to move toward. there is no doubt there are enough pieces out there in people, places and unmade memories to leave me happy. to make me homeful.

so maybe i’ll find myself letting go of some pieces, but maybe it’s about time.