When I first got divorced, my farm girl instincts kicked in. I wanted to be home. I grew up tied to the land and, in times of stress, I want to go back to the land I remember so fondly. (Un)fortunately, I couldn't go home after the divorce. I found a job at a tiny rural school, though, and decided that would have to be close enough for now. Still, I had my sights set on returning home, eventually. As I close in on the one year anniversary of accepting this job at a school that (at the time) seemed so far from home, I've come to realize a lot about the meaning of the word "home."
The other day, someone I care about very deeply challenged me to open myself up to possibilities - including the possibility of someday moving even farther from home. My first reaction was an immediate, harsh, resounding "NO!" Within the next few days, I was feeling homesick and decided to plant my garden. As I was digging my hands into the dark clay, it occurred to me that I have made my home in multiple places. Why, then, am I so set on living as close to my original home as possible? As I worked the soil at my new(ish) home, I realized that I could be at home anywhere, so long as I was able to live in a place with some space and get my hands dirty.
See, home is not a place. As much as it pains my farm girl heart to say so, home has no connection to land. Home is not even another person, as I've seen so many young romantics post lately. Home is where you are, because if you are happy, if you are content with yourself and can appreciate the good things in any location, then you are home. And I am very happy to say that, finally, I am home.