I grew up a military brat. Every three years, we would pack up our belongings and move someplace new. While I didn’t make many attachments but I loved the excitement and mystery of someplace new. Possibilities would swirl in my mind as we packed up our Chevy Astrovan and drove to the next state, what would the seasons look like, what sort of flowers would there be, would I see mountains or forests, would there be streams or great lakes. Home for me changed about five different times in about eight different houses before Andrew and I got married. They say that home is where the heart is and my heart was always with my family, never in one specific place or one specific home. When life finally settled and Florida became home, so often I found my heart wandering, imaging a life somewhere else. It was a strange adjustment to be in one place and almost like clockwork, every three years I would want a change.
That change usually manifested itself in new throw pillows, a new paint color or a different comforter or picture frame. Slowly, my need to pack up my life and head towards the possibility of somewhere new began to fade and the importance of building a home began to overtake me. It tends to sneak up on me really. While running errands or spending a day at the beach I’ll be struck by the fact that I’ve driven these streets and walked along the same beaches for the past sixteen years. Eventually, I began to feel home. As the summer storms roll in and lightening fills the sky and the air becomes charged with heat and electricity I feel home. As Andrew and I spend a day watching the waters crash into the shores, our feet covered in sand, I feel home.
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