Home is Where the Heart Is

Just over two years ago, very shortly after moving across the country with no home and no job and no solid plan, I wrote the poem Finding Home. Several years previously, when I was still in college, I remember saying to a friend that I wasn't going to use the word "home" anymore, since no matter where I lived, I'd be only a temporary resident; a foreigner on planet Earth. Removing "home" from my vocabulary only lasted about a week, but I admire my younger self's efforts at preserving the integrity of the concept of home. It's funny how I have played with the idea of "home" over the years. I still do.

Now I'm a newlywed (and loving it!), sharing a bed and a home with a man for the first time. Home is redefining itself for me once again.

Evan and I enjoyed tropical paradise for our Hawaiian honeymoon. It was divine. We thoroughly enjoyed the mountains, the plants, the fowl, the beaches, the weather, the waterfalls, the food, the culture, the novelty of being married, the luxurious resort, and most of all, being completely alone together for a whole week.

Sharing shaved ice. More than just a snow cone.

Lexi told me before we left that I once I was there I wouldn't want to come back. I told her that's what I was afraid of, then joked about the possibility of just...never coming back. So when Evan tried to joke and daydream with me during our trip about moving to Hawaii, I surprised myself with my lack of enthusiasm for the idea. I wasn't even interested. I shut down his imaginings with logic, saying things like, "It's too expensive here," and "We'd be too isolated." He always admitted that realistically I was probably right but I think I frustrated him a little by not at least indulging him in fantasizing about building our lives together in a jungle wonderland.

Staff at the resort apologized to us that we wouldn't have a view of the beach from our suite. 

This is the view we got. No complaints. At all.

I surprised myself again when we were returning home. As Evan's parents drove us home from the airport and I gazed out the window at the dusty, dry bluffs the flew past us, I felt so nostalgic and happy to be home. Home? Is this home now? I've only lived here for two years. Can it be? True, I'm more emotional when I'm sleep-deprived (as I certainly was that day), but I couldn't deny the contentedness I felt at returning to familiar landscapes and familiar people.

I was talking to Lexi about this whole idea on our first hike together upon my return. How could I be disenchanted by a place as (admittedly) spectacular as Hawaii while still holding places like Jamaica (higher crime) and Alaska (colder) so near to my heart?

Only one answer makes sense to me: people.

And all this time I thought I was drawn most to nature; God's beauty.
Lexi and I moved out here for the mountains two years ago.
My heart is still very near to the mountains, sea, and glaciers in Alaska.
Every day in Hawaii we were stunned by spectacular views.
I feel very close to God when I am still in Creation, experiencing all that he has made for his beloved children, for me.

So why didn't Hawaii capture my heart and refuse to release it? Why don't I have a new obsession for it? I was right that I am initially drawn to landscapes, but what keeps me is the people.

I loved Jamaica because of the relationships I created and built while I was there. I talked to several dozen Jamaicans about the most intimate parts of their lives, so while I only spent a week there (the same amount of time I spent in Hawaii), years later, I long to visit. I loved Alaska for the same reasons, only more so. And I was content to come home from my honeymoon because that's where many of my friends and (new) family live. Of course it makes sense, but it really caught me off-guard.

The phrase, "home is where the heart is," is almost 2,000 years old. My heart is spread across multiple states and cities. The number of places I can lay my head and feel at home is growing, but I'm also very happy to stay right here.


S.D.G.