//It used to be people would dig the seed of themselves into earth, wherever they landed on this swirling gas ball. Place was a wall, a shelter, a home they built onto for a lifetime. The ground beneath them where their shoots took root was their entire world day upon day. This plot of terra firma perhaps the nutrients to the wood of their own cradle and the blanket wrapping up their own body at death.
Who are we when place has transformed into a breeze, or an email? We capture it in a breath, hit Send, and move on with life.
My husband and I bantered this out the other night. I see home as people. He longs for the place we will stay for a set period of time. I’ve never had a permanent home persay because our family moved nearly every four years. This was the pattern. This is what we did. I adapted. I moved.//
Because rooted places never seem to take to the plant of me, I learned to carry my sense of place in lonelier landscapes: in the what was to be of future pursuits, in friendships hoped for and sometimes found, in food, spirit, and experience. Here I could move on without being disappointed. Here I found hope in the what could be.
It’s true, society is more transient than ever. I am a product of this constant motion: a child at heart who finds home is more people than place. I’ve adapted and taken my roots out of the ground and extended them as arms to other displaced friends, for whatever time we have each other.
I love this world and every place it will take me. Yes, I long for home and hearth, identity and community, as people did of old. Sometimes at night, I walk out on the deck and stand upon my two strong legs under stars. I lift my eyes to a fixed point of light and know, like you may know too, my place is with God. Here is good, for now.
This post is part of Five Minute Friday, a creative community of writers taking the weekly challenge to write for five minutes on one word. Join us!
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