Thoughts from Being Home

The topic of home can be a weighty subject, one that has occupied my mind for many miles on the road and in my many summer residences. I’m not sure where even to begin. How about a quick description of my immediate environment:

It’s night and, except for the hum of the refrigerator, the kitchen is quiet. Looking across the table, I can see our patio light illuminating the descent of rain. If these white lines moved any slower, I would think them to be snowflakes in a winter storm. I’m drinking water on the rocks; these particular ice cubes emerge from the freezer automatically as rectangular crescents. Condensation has built up on the heavy glass that I’ve used all my life. This scene has played out countless times as I’ve grown up; pouring over my textbooks while everyone is asleep upstairs, listening to the rain and wind shake the leaves in the nearby trees.

I’m absolutely content. Perhaps this is because no matter where I look, every object, every sound, every shadow here is utterly familiar. There are no surprises. Is this what defines a “home”? Is it the people? The details of one’s environment? When does a new place start to feel like home? I now equate Ann Arbor with my home (and G.P as my home-home), but is that only because I’ve lived there for three years?

I know I haven’t written as frequently as when I was in Seattle. Out west, I’m surrounded by the unknown and when every day is full of new experiences, it becomes necessary for me to process and record those events. Such is the nature of travel. I know that the first 24 hours in Mali when be documented through more pages and photographs than these past two weeks at home.

I think I’m tapping into something deep here. Something about the role of art/writing in my life, something about the need for travel, or at least for new experiences. Since college, I’ve never done the same thing for more than four months (class, work, living situation). And I don’t think it’s because I am unable to enjoy my present situation; in order for me to grow and thrive as a person, I think I need to constantly be exploring new territories.

I’m not sure where I’m going with this.

-BREAK-

I just returned from picking up my little sister at a friend’s house. A cold front has moved in and it’s pouring. The city feels empty with its dark puddle streets. We got completely soaked running from house to car, and sat inside shivering, listening to jazz pound like the raindrops on the car windows.

Why am I so attune and attracted to these environmentally-induced sensations?

Here are some other questions to ponder: Do I have to sacrifice the contentment of a stable home for the personal growth of an eternal traveler? Or can I still learn from that which is familiar? What fuels my creative process? I know I am more diligent about writing and taking photographs when I travel, but I also know I can pull off larger, more in-depth art projects when I’m not living out of a suitcase. There’s got to be some balance of these tendencies that can make for a viable career, or at least, a clearer direction in life. I don’t think I can choose just one; both are stronger because of the other. Traveling gives me inspiration and being at “home” allows me to create something more significant than journal scribblings. But I don’t feel like I’ve discovered the perfect ratio of time on the road to time in the studio.

Maybe I’ll find this balance in Mali. I’ll let you know if I do.