It's said that the place is not important, that what really defines home is your family around you. Of course it's true. I especially like the idea that throughout our lives we are all relying on each other - we're all walking each other home, as Ram Dass says. But sometimes places can set a soul to vibrating, too. There are places in this world that I have felt that I belong, that I have felt at peace, that I have felt at home - a handful of places, to be sure, but the place is important, all the same. They include:
Libby, Montana. My parents, brother, sister and I lived in Libby twice during my childhood around the time I was eight and nine. I have memories of my mom going over homework with my foster-brother at the kitchen table, of hiding in the stairwell to watch The Wizard of Oz on television when I was supposed to be in bed, of Easter baskets hidden in the oven, of the Dairy Queen, Asa Wood Elementary School, and Libby Logger Days. My dad worked on a dam there, and my mom probably worked in a supermarket, but I'm a little fuzzy on the details. I was a kid and carefree.
Monterey, California. R and I met and married and started our lives together in Monterey and lived there twice. H attended kindergarten through second grade, L attended preschool. We explored the aquarium and the beach. I remember lying on the lawn and looking at the stars as a family. We visited the Carmel Mission and San Juan Bautista. The nucleus of of We4 really came to be during our time in Monterey.
Vancouver, Washington. After we came back from Bulgaria, I don't think we ever planned to leave Washington. We'd bought a house and the girls were happy in school. We planted lilacs in the yard and I went back to college. We made our own scouting troop with just H and L and me. We visited museums. My brother joined us for Christmas. H and L and R went skiing on Mt. Hood. Really, those were halcyon days.
There were lots of other places in between, both during my youth and during my married years - Idaho, Oregon, Washington, Missouri, Colorado, Texas, Germany, Maryland, Bulgaria. All of them had happy times and sad times. Times when we were disappointed or proud, sad or euphoric. Times that represented "home."
Because I grew up mostly in Wyoming, and because H and L spent a lot of their childhoods there, more than any other place Wyoming will always be home to me. The smell of the sage, the beauty of the mountains, the simplicity of the antelope on the plains. For the last 13 years we've spent all holidays there - the quiet moments of Christmas and the Thanksgivings with family and the Independence Days with parades and fireworks. We've been camping in the summer and braved South Pass in the winter. We've spent summer days under the gazebo on the back deck. We've marveled at our good fortune to have such a life - one that allows us to have our health, our jobs, each other, our happiness.
R is in Wyoming now, packing it all up, deciding what to sell, what to store, what to bring with us on our travels. There's a lot of nostalgia and not a little bit of second-guessing. We're selling the house, and that makes it so definite, so irretrievable, so bittersweet. Will we find another place in the world where we feel this sense of belonging, this sense of home? If we're lucky, we will.
One last memory of our house in Lander, though - our backyard in the summer:
Listen to Bonnie Raitt's song, Home.
And home sings me of sweet things
My life there has its own wings
Fly over the mountains
Though I'm standing still
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