take me home

I’m often flabbergasted that I somehow ended up in Sweden. It happens when I’m walking down the street, waking up in the morning, getting groceries, and showing up to work. How in the world did I choose to live in this place when I’ve only ever wanted to live somewhere warm, with palm trees, and ocean breezes? I know and remember all the events that led up to me being here, but my main question these days is – why do I stay? There’s very little holding me here – and I have left places in which I had much more invested – but I’m still here, and I’m questioning why I haven’t yet left.

It wasn’t always easy to leave. People have told me that they admire my ability to follow my dreams, and to venture through the world, but it wasn’t always easy. I had to draw upon an unseen courage, reach for strengths I hoped were inside me, embrace an optimism that was nearly reckless. To up and leave a life you have created just because is nearly self-destructive. Starting a new life lies on the border between imagination and impending doom.

I’ve done it over and over again. It’s exhilarating and exhausting. I have no regrets, but I do have some painful memories. I can’t deny that I am constantly restless. I have been since I can remember, and it’s a source of great discomfort.

It is said that home is where the heart is, but I’m not even sure where my heart is these days. I have moved so many times in the past decade that nowhere really feels like home – and yet everywhere easily becomes home. It’s as though I’m living in some strange Middle Earth that, by design, leads to everywhere at once. Hop on a plane and go see my family, friends, or explore somewhere new. Click the little phone icon and I’m instantly connected to people on the other side of the planet. Head to the foreign food aisle and I can easily indulge myself in some Reeses or a box of KD. I don’t have to be in Canada or New Zealand to experience the things I love about those places. But no matter how I can supplement the voids created by being away from those places, I still feel displaced – like I’m missing something important.

I envy people who are attached to places – who get filled up when they visit home. I envy people who feel that sense of belonging – who have found their tribe. When you are a citizen of the world, while the world may appear to be your oyster, you are no longer naive about the illusion of safety and security that so many associate with “home.” Life in my hometown was never without danger. My existence in Europe has no guarantee of happiness. Can a place really fill you up? Or is it the people who are there who help you feel whole? Your tribe? And what happens when everyone who made a place what it once was has left? Maybe I’m completely off base – but homey places in our hearts are more about the people and the memories, aren’t they?

Sweden has found a spot in my heart, and yet I can’t deny that I feel alone here. I have found a tribe, but I’m not sure it’s my tribe, and that doesn’t comfort me. I’ve grown weary of saying good-bye. I’ve become tired of constantly living out of suitcases, and having to start over. I question if Sweden is just where I happened to be when I got tired, or was it the place I was looking to find all along? Is this just a pitstop before my next move? Is feeling at home even important? Will I ever feel comfortable, anywhere?

Comfort is a funny concept – because it’s based on safety and security – things which are fickle and fantasy. Home may be a concept that is based on that comfort, but for the restless soul, for those like me who have a difficult time settling anywhere for long – home has to be something we take with us, even if it will never feel like it did when we were young. I’m not so certain that I’ll ever settle down, or discover why I’m staying, or for how long, but maybe I’ll learn to call Middle Earth home – and take it with me everywhere I go. After all, it’s just a concept.