i’m home.
in my spearmint colored condo, on my bustling little street, in the city of angels. the temperature is hot, heavy and sticky, my air conditioner is earning its due and the king’s anthem is blaring through the loudspeakers in the park below. it is the golden hour – the sun is soft and red reflected on the cityscape.
from dorothy clicking her heels, closing her eyes and repeating, “there’s no place like home”; to edward sharpe and the magnetic zeros’ addictive refrain, “home is wherever i’m with you”; to thomas wolfe telling us that we can never go home again. the idea and concept of home is filled with nostalgia and has had many interpretations in popular culture and popular wisdom. is home a place? a construct? a matter of presence?
when i left to go traveling when i was 19, my mom gave me a bookmark. it said, home is where your story begins. that bookmark has been everywhere. maybe my home is where the bookmark is! when i tell stories about myself, i hear myself talk about where i grew up, and how instrumental my upbringing in ottawa was to the person i have become. i consider myself canadian at heart. when i get on a plane each summer and hear the voices of the air canada flight attendants, i instantly feel home.