It’s a funny thing, making a home and then leaving it. I mean, we’ve all moved right? we’ve all packed up our shit, taped up the boxes and hauled it off. sent it, sent ourselves, off to our new ‘home’.
we’ve all invested the time. hung pictures, scrubbed floors, bought shelves. filled those shelves. organized those closets. settled into those walls.
so what happens when you pack it all up, but there’s no where to go?
at this point, we’ve taken our home on the road. we’ve switched over from the literal sense of home, to the figurative sense of home, and while its beautiful and free, its also difficult.
We’ve been living in a state of constant transition, of constant travel and home and away and back home again for years. its nothing new. but there’s always been a ‘home’. there’s always been a bed and a kitchen and a couch with that perfect 2 person indent waiting for us.
As this wild life of travel and teaching and exploring continued to evolve it became abundantly clear that that couch was no longer getting the love and butt time it so desperately deserved.
So we packed it up. we called it a day on ‘home’. which meant that we needed to delve a little deeper into what home really was.
I was in mourning. truthfully, I think I’m still in mourning.
I didn’t think I would be, but I am.
I grew up in a city I liked, but I didn’t love. I wasn’t getting the skyline tatted on my sleeve anytime soon, and I wasn’t ever dying to get back no matter how beautiful the mountains were or how much I love my family. but then I found it. and I fell in love. with the people. the vibes. the food. the laid-back enthusiasm for everything and the passion for personal growth. i found Portland in all its weird (not actually that weird) glory.
portland is kind of a sublime place. and I’m really going to miss it. In fact, i do already miss it.
but we’re off.
like way off. well into week 5 here in Australia in fact. We sold the needless shit we’d collected over the years. well, sold most of it atleast. the comics stayed. the books and the records, the art and the hats. we’ll keep those.
the rest, it’s yours.
I’m in mourning.
We did our best to soak up that wondrous little northwest city we used to call home. that home and the people as much as possible before they became a twice-a-year occurrence. I tried to ingrain the feeling of our lonely couch that usually sat untouched for 3/4 of the year but that somehow I’m just starting to miss. this time last year I was writing about the beauty of having a home. of having space to roam and create. poetic as that is, its not what is calling us. it’s not whats on the table right now.
coming back home when home is no longer a physical presence. its a doozy.
maybe can someone cross stitch me a “home is where the heart is” piece to hang on every hotel wall? multi colored would be nice. maybe some flowers too.
some places its easy. almost too easy. lets just buy a beach house and say fuck it and move here because oceans are magical and oh hey they have good organic grocers here too. there’s so much good nut milk here, we should totally live here.
and then we leave.
we pack up our stuff, we say goodbye to our new friends and students, and we move again. sometimes we fall in love with a new imaginary home all over again. sometimes we don’t.
to and fro. as silly as it seems, it really is the little things that pull you in. like a sweet little neighborhood co-op, or a coffee shop with good music and comfy chairs, maybe a yoga studio with just the right vibes. I think that’s how I stay sane without the physical grounding of a home. its finding that home within your surroundings no matter what or where they might be. settling into yourself, and into your life, and into each and every little bit of home that offers itself up to you each day.
It’s the push and the pull of this practice. the ever important balance of effort and the ease that turns up far off of the yoga mat just as it always seems to do. this life is a ceaseless dance of east and west, north and south, when all you’re trying to do is find the fucking center. ceaseless dance perhaps, but a glorious one, certainly.
We’ve traded in our tables and chairs for plane seats and never ending yoga mats. for boundless new adventures and body, breath, mind, and world exploration. traded them in for meeting phenomenal people, for sparks of friendship and eye opening sights. The generous communities we are lucky enough to step into each week are the reason we do what we do, wherever we are doing it. Its that connection that brings our gloriously discombobulated lives into focus.
I’m still wearing black (I’ve only got 5 outfits in my bags these days), and I think we’ll always mourn our first real home a little bit. but for now I’m letting go and leaning in, leaning way in, to where ever it is we wander.