Home is a Feeling, Not a Place

HOME. For me, it’s a feeling. Being surrounded by my favorite humans from around the globe is home. Standing alone in the midst of a dense forest is home. Buried beneath a bundle of fluffy comforter on top of any bed, mine, a friend’s or any other borrowed one, is home. Wading my feet in the ocean is home. Sitting in a small circle of soul sisters, drinking tea beneath the twinkle lights is home. Behind behind the wheel, many miles to go on the road is home.

The other day, when I returned back to California from Spain, I went to pick up my van from the van-sitter (my brother). The moment I unlocked the driver door and plopped into the front seat, I got a big whiff of old plywood, a little bit of dust and dirt mixed with old engine fluids, and seemingly freshly washed blankets that lay on my van bed. That space, old plywood, burnt engine oil and all, that REALLY feels like home.

I had been back in the states for a couple days before I picked the van up. I hadn’t noticed this at first, but I didn’t feel like I arrived until that moment.

No matter how many other home “buildings” I have the luxury of living in, this one feels like the safest bubble. I had the most heart wrenchingly painful healings slowly unfold here. I’ve use this as a vessel to transport myself and so many friends on countless spontaneous adventures full of silly smiles and laughter. Most recently, I used it as my safe space to argue and negotiate on the phone with insurance agents about an accident that happened so. long. ago. It makes me feel braver and unconditionally supported. Almost mindlessly, when I’m having a bad day, I find my little human self, bundled up in pillows and blankets here. It feels quiet and it feels safe, even parked on the side of the busy road behind my apartment. This too, is HOME.