When you never stay too long in one place, you learn to grow roots quickly, like an invasive plant. You learn to seek out the things that make the place unique, and the things that make it feel like home. It’s not that hard really. I look in some standard places: work, church, the streets I walk daily with the dogs.
Work and church anchor me to place, even when as an introvert I skip coffee hour. (Plays well with friends, yes, but not so much strangers.) Work interactions make friends of strangers, and work gives my day structure and purpose.
Making a home requires an open heart, and that’s not a comfortable place to be. I love the physical stuff of Louisville – rocky cliffs, Derby hats, Tudor condos, cooked sushi – knowing that one day I will likely leave these things behind. I’ll leave the people, too; even social media can’t put me at the table, drink in hand, with friends who have meant so much in the moment. And so leaving my heart open to place and to people makes me vulnerable. And even in the moment, I anticipate the loss. Perhaps I am just crying out, along with creation, crying out for perfect and permanent home.
I’ve already found a score of things to love about Louisville. But the mention of Texas bluebonnets or the scent of mesquite smoke will always send a shiver through me as I remember another home, not long ago in my rear view mirror.
(Easter Banners. Photo: ©Church of the Advent)