If you have lived in the same place your entire life, I imagine that things just feel familiar: the cool fall air, the hot summer breeze, the smell after the rain. I have moved around so much, maybe too much, that all those things feel familiar, yes, but they feel familiar some place else. I stand on the street corner and feel a breeze that feels just like Nairobi. The crisp smell of a morning will always feel like the Netherlands to me. The light smokey hint of a wood fire in the evening feels like every place that cooks on fires: Liberia, and Rwanda, and Honduras, and Sudan. Sometimes I feel like I walk around in a swirl of all the places I've ever been.
I've been thinking a lot lately about when I first moved to Gone West. As I walked to the store in the dark last night, I thought about my cautiousness when I first moved here. Back then, I would never have walked to that store after dark, because I didn't like the bus stop there. The groups of teenagers made me nervous. Now I smile at the way they pummel one another as they wait for the bus. Nothing has changed about them, of course. It is only me. I felt new and uncertain here, 20 months ago, and now I feel at home.
It was the night air, last night, that felt like East Africa, as I stood on that corner waiting for the light to change. It was the temperature, or the smell, or the texture of it.
For so long, I moved because that is who I was. I don't think I even realized that I had a choice. I wanted to go home, to the other half of my life, and that's how I could get there. My stomach used to sink, in college and law school, at the thought of staying in Michigan or in New York. (What effect the being in school had on that, I cannot say.) The first place that felt like home to me after we left Liberia in 1990 was Rwanda. It was the first place where I did not find myself thinking, "I wish I could go home." I was home. I didn't even look up at jet trails, hoping to travel. I was content to stay.
I'm approaching my third winter here in Gone West and the thought of moving is almost repellent. Apparently I am a nester, when given the chance. I miss the places I've lived before. I miss them in my senses and my soul, but right now I'm so relieved every day to come home to my tiny little space. I find comfort in walking to the tea place on weekend afternoons. I crave the coffee shop where they know me by name and know which drink I want in hot weather and cold. I like my walk on the street with the beautiful houses. It feel comfortable here, and familiar.
Now it's the thought of moving that makes my stomach sink. Not even the twirling leaves emptying the trees or the prospect of another long dark winter can drive me away. If I'm willing to put up with cold rain wind dark for the sake of a place, if I'm even willing to ignore the blasts of memory and the longing for those other wonderful places, then it must be true love. I must be home.
(For now, of course. For now.)
I've been thinking a lot lately about when I first moved to Gone West. As I walked to the store in the dark last night, I thought about my cautiousness when I first moved here. Back then, I would never have walked to that store after dark, because I didn't like the bus stop there. The groups of teenagers made me nervous. Now I smile at the way they pummel one another as they wait for the bus. Nothing has changed about them, of course. It is only me. I felt new and uncertain here, 20 months ago, and now I feel at home.
It was the night air, last night, that felt like East Africa, as I stood on that corner waiting for the light to change. It was the temperature, or the smell, or the texture of it.
For so long, I moved because that is who I was. I don't think I even realized that I had a choice. I wanted to go home, to the other half of my life, and that's how I could get there. My stomach used to sink, in college and law school, at the thought of staying in Michigan or in New York. (What effect the being in school had on that, I cannot say.) The first place that felt like home to me after we left Liberia in 1990 was Rwanda. It was the first place where I did not find myself thinking, "I wish I could go home." I was home. I didn't even look up at jet trails, hoping to travel. I was content to stay.
I'm approaching my third winter here in Gone West and the thought of moving is almost repellent. Apparently I am a nester, when given the chance. I miss the places I've lived before. I miss them in my senses and my soul, but right now I'm so relieved every day to come home to my tiny little space. I find comfort in walking to the tea place on weekend afternoons. I crave the coffee shop where they know me by name and know which drink I want in hot weather and cold. I like my walk on the street with the beautiful houses. It feel comfortable here, and familiar.
Now it's the thought of moving that makes my stomach sink. Not even the twirling leaves emptying the trees or the prospect of another long dark winter can drive me away. If I'm willing to put up with cold rain wind dark for the sake of a place, if I'm even willing to ignore the blasts of memory and the longing for those other wonderful places, then it must be true love. I must be home.
(For now, of course. For now.)
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