Home is where, now?

When I was a little girl, my mom lived with her parents in this huge house in the Westport area of Kansas City. It was three stories tall and very old- if I remember correctly there was a sign on the front porch that very proudly touted it's year of construction as 1889.

I was pretty small while we were living there- my mom single- and it was me, my infant brother and her living in the attic. I loved it, personally, because in one of the attic closets there was a room full of stuff that needed storing- old vacuums and chairs, towers of odds and ends. And tons of shelves full of books and magazines.

Specifically (and literally), these magazines:

The National Geographic, multitudes of them, in small leather boxes dating from the 70's and 80's.

I would venture into that room, climb under and over, roam round and through, balancing across ledges, to finally wiggle into the smallest corner I could find and crack open one of those bad boys- so the real adventure could begin.

We found these while we were sifting around through my mothers things in her garage.

I will never forget asking about the photos of indigenous peoples I saw in these magazines or about the volcanoes and wild life I discovered. And those are my first, most favorite memories of the place I called home many times over the years that followed.

Until one day, it just wasn't. A few years after my grandmother passed away my grandfather realized he couldn't keep up with the costs of owning what was ostensibly a small mansion. He sold it, taking what ever monies he gained from the sale to move to Florida- to be close to his mother and part of a community that was more his pace.

I've called a lot of places home since then. I've lived in small towns, in suburbs, in the country and deep in the inner city. I've seen first hand how socio-economics can effect the education you can access at a public school, and how having a creek within walking distance from your back door changes the way you think about climate and the weather.

That said, we were never in any one place for long- three years may have been the longest we lived in one place. It was where we were living when I graduated from high school, a house in south Kansas City my mother moved from shortly thereafter.

When I reached adulthood (Finally! Captain of my own ship!) choosing my home was at the top of my priority list. A place I can feel stable and safe, a place I could recover and rest, turn up and celebrate, a space I could invite others into- to share and grow in. I was blessed to make friends I consider family during the time I spent living with roommates but it took a while for me to find the place I would call home.

I moved there after living in

Columbia for about 8 years and it was my first place living alone.

I had parties and gatherings, hosted friends and family, shared laughter and tears, troubles and triumphs. I gained confidence in myself and learned what I am capable of. So of course I had to sell it all, pack it up and leave the first home I'd ever made just for me.

Wait, what?

I know, I don't quite understand it myself but I can summarize this way:

Once I built my home and realigned my inner compass, I realized that there are still things I don't know about making a home and there are still lessons I need that I can only learn by leaving the home that I made for myself behind.

So, I am visiting the people I love in their homes. Call it reconnaissance (or advanced couch surfing).

My first stop is Kansas City- helping my sister with whatever she needs (mostly it's just been sorting things and hanging out with my super cute nephew who is turning 2 on the 4th of September) and assisting my mother in her transition to a new home.

Mom's garage has been a doozy for the both of us. Memories on memories being pulled out and reframed by the present- the perspective of now often earned from the lessons of back then. It makes the packing feel a lot more like unpacking. But all I can think is that I am exactly where I'm supposed to be.

Because the real purpose of home, at least for me, is to build the place I can always return to. The place that I long for in the midst of adventure- the place my mind goes to when I am in danger or when I feel perfectly happy and at peace. The place that calls me back- the oasis when life feels like a desert, the sturdy roof in a storm, the sun on my back as I head out again on my next adventure.

I want to build that place with the feeling that I first had in my grandparents home on Baltimore Avenue. The place where I first gained my adventurous spirit, where I felt safe to throw the biggest tantrums and ask forgiveness, where I learned about family, about love and loss. Where we all gathered and battled and found peace.

In leaving behind the home I made for myself, I am looking forward to building the home I can create for the people I love.

Here's to step one.