"Not all who wander are lost." -J. R. R. Tolkien

There is no greater feeling than that of a homecoming. The smell, the sounds, the air… You know you’re at peace when the feeling sinks through your skin and into your bones. The problem, for most of us, is that we don’t reside at “home.” 

For some, home is where they were born. For others, it’s the place they grew up. For me, it’s the place where I finally felt like I belonged. I do not live there now. I do not have family there. I rarely escape for a visit. But, when the wheels of the plane touch down, my whole body rejoices. When the air hits my face, and the stifling humidity washes over me like a warm blanket, I know I’m finally home again. And, if I hadn’t ventured outside my little world, expanded my horizons and took a huge risk, I’d never have come to understand that home is not where your roots are, it’s not what your familiar with, nor is it where you live. 

A few years ago I lived in a tiny little farm town, an hour outside of Seattle. It was, for me, awful. Eight thousand people, the stench of cows, and an hour to civilization aside, this town was the polar opposite of my version of home.  The people were narrow/closed minded, the lack of ambition enveloped the landscape like whitewash on a picket fence.  Culture, opportunity and diversity nonexistent. A sad little corner of the world, in my opinion.

Listening to the radio one day, I heard one of the most depressing statements of my life; a caller announced that she lived in a town barely more than an hour from Seattle, she’d been a resident there all 33 years of her life, and she’d never been to the city. Never. Not once. My jaw dropped. She said this with pride. As far as she was concerned, there was no need to venture outside her tiny little hamlet; the world outside had nothing to offer she couldn’t find in her immediate area. 

I. Was. DUMBFOUNDED.

According to a 2012 Forbes article (a touch outdated, but you know how things with statistics go), approximately 35% of all Americans have a passport. Only one-third of our nation finds a reason to travel outside our borders. That, to me, is appalling.  The entire lack of pursuit of travel to the countries which comprise our great nation is disheartening. We are not a nation with a rich history more than a millennium old, but rather one built on the backbones of so many others. So, why is it that so many find traveling to the rest of the world lacks appeal?

Mark Twain once wrote, “Travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry, and narrow-mindedness, and many of our people need it sorely on these accounts. Broad, wholesome, charitable views of men and things cannot be acquired by vegetating in one little corner of the earth all one's lifetime.”  As a nation, we’re so narrow minded about our way of life being the right one. We believe, on the whole, that we’re the greatest nation on earth and spout our ideals as if they’re paramount. Yet, our focus is solely on ourselves, our way of life and even our food choices. How sad, how unfortunate.

So it happened that in 2008 I was given the opportunity to uproot my little family and move 3000 miles away to a city and culture (not to mention climate) completely foreign to my own. It was terrifying. I knew that for the first time in my life I’d have no support system, no family to reach out to for a random BBQ, no places to be on any given holiday. With much trepidation, I chose to embark on this journey, knowing that I’d have no social circle, and no outside stimulus. Just my husband, my children and myself.  And it was the best decision I’ve ever made. When the novelty of living where so many go to vacation wore off, I settled into the feeling of “home.” I was born in the wrong place. I was raised in the wrong place.  Not to say there is anything wrong with the cities in which I spent my more tender years (although, I could go on rants about any of them…) but more to the point, my soul belongs in Florida. This is my home, and will always be the singular place I feel perfectly at peace. But, my stay there was short lived, and although I hope to someday live there again, I understand that life has a way of showing me where I belong. I don't make that decision; it is made for me.

From the move to Florida on, the travel bug was in my blood. I need to travel. I need to know. I need to see the rest of the world, experience the cultures, taste the foods and wander down the sidewalks in places I’ve never dreamed. 

I’ve seen the Eiffel Tower, ridden the London Eye, walked along the beach in the Mediterranean, gotten lost on cobblestone streets in Mexico. 

I’ve hiked Arlington National Cemetery, sat on the edge of the Forsyth fountain in Savannah, wandered Bourbon Street, placed my hands in the cement at Grauman’s Chinese Theater, shopped Rodeo Drive, looked down over Manhattan from the observation deck of the Empire State Building, and ridden a fan boat through the Everglades. 

I’ve wandered through Fisherman’s Wharf, gazed into the amazing lakes amid Glacier National Park, danced under the bright lights of Las Vegas, rubbed elbows with celebrities in Toronto, skied the mountains of British Columbia, and walked along the Hoover Dam. 

I had the pleasure of exploring old plantations in Alabama, floating on a sandbar in Indiana, watching an air show over the Chicago skyline from Lake Michigan and wandering aimlessly through thousand-year-old churches in Oxford. 

And yet, I’ve seen nothing. I’ve experienced nothing.

I'll never tire of the trips, never grow weary of the new adventures. I prefer travel to any other form of entertainment. Yes, I have lovely things, a nice home, late model cars and Tiffany sunglasses. Yes, I spend money on eating at restaurants, going for a drink and a snappy new pair of sandals. Yet, given the option, I'd rather make memories than buy "stuff." For me, life is not a game of dying with the most toys, but rather living with the most experience. My home is decorated with photos of places I've been and moments I've experienced. I do not wish for posed portraits, for famous paintings or fantastic decor. The photos of my kids which adorn my walls are of moments, not perfectly assembled and balanced images, but of running and laughing and living. I refuse to get so caught up in life that I forget to live it. And I will never again settle for my current locale - this is temporary, as will be each and every stop from here on out.

When I die, scatter my ashes to the wind, as I do not want to be in one place for eternity. I am a vagabond, and I love it.

"Forgiveness is the fragrance that the violet sheds on the heel that has crushed it." - Mark Twain

“Forgiveness is a way of life, not an action. I just needed a minute to remember that. My heart is only big enough for so much emotion… Why waste valuable space with anger, hurt, resentment and pettiness?” - Me

Yesterday, while having a conversation with someone about the ways I approach life, I realized that I’ve grown a lot in my thinking in the past 6 months. Life has a way of throwing things at us, and we get to decide what impact that will have on our trajectory.

 

One of the things I’ve come to realize about my lot in life is that I’m here to serve the people I love in one very specific way. I get to be the person who shows love, acceptance, forgiveness, patience and loyalty. It’s not that I think I’m this amazing person or example. Not by any means. Rather, I understand that people in general say and do very foolish things. Wonderful people act in horrific ways, hurt the ones that love them most, and make purely selfish decisions.  Unfortunately, I’m often the individual impacted by said actions. However, I’ve learned to treat this as not a burden, but an opportunity.  

One of the things very few people realize is how their actions affect those around them.  By and large, most people are selfish and me-centric. While, yes, I realize there are exceptions to the rule, I also know that these exceptions are few and far between in the grand scheme of things.  So, it’s often the case that one doesn’t see the ramifications until long after the fact. I have the luxury of getting to show people that unconditional love can truly exist, and loyalty can be unyielding. To me, this is such a blessing.

I spent the larger portion of my life, from adolescence forward, being a doormat. I allowed people to treat me poorly, and stayed loyal long after most would have given up hope. There are countless who know, to this day, I’ll be there in a millisecond should they ever need a thing. I have always been this way.  And, for a long time, it was for unhealthy reasons – I wanted to be loved, accepted and needed. So, being a doormat meant that I was always in one of those groups.

Today, I view my role as one of a different nature.  I refuse to allow the behaviors which cause me anguish to go unacknowledged.  If you hurt me, I will tell you so. If your actions impact me, I will make it known. However, I now have the knowledge that my job isn’t to correct them, to point a finger, to shame them, or to allow them.  My role is that of being loving, patient and kind.  You don’t get to hurt me without my stating that I’m hurt, but you also have more and more chances to do better. I see each of my moments of anger, of pain, of heartache, as a chance to say “This is how you made me feel” and then make sure the person knows that I am here, they are loved, and that will never change.

Sometimes my forgiveness is immediate. Sometimes it takes a few moments. Sometimes I actually have to tell the person that I’m hurting, that I need time, but that eventually things will be okay.  My conversation yesterday followed a venting about something petty. It made me angry and hurt me. And I lashed out (not to the person, but rather about him.) After a few moments of that, the ridiculous nature of my thoughts and actions hit me like a ton of bricks – I was acting so silly, and letting something minor affect my mood. I remembered that I’m in charge of my thoughts, I get to decide if I’m going to react as an adult or as a child.

I choose to practice love. I choose to practice patience. I choose to practice forgiveness. I choose to show compassion. I choose to be a vessel of unconditional love.

I choose it.

"Some people have a way with words, and other people...oh, uh, not have way.” ― Steve Martin

A paperback, plucked from its home on the oak bookshelf, nestled in the corner of the playroom upstairs, lies on my lap as the two little creatures who grew in my womb snuggle in to my left and right. Today we’ve chosen Roald Dahl, one of my childhood favorites. We’ve read of giant fruits, of great labs in which amazing candy is born, faraway lands of strawmen and wizards, of fantastic adventures of perpetually late white rabbits, and of a young man on a fabulous journey with his good friend Huck. As I flip the first page and begin to read Matilda, their little eyes dance along the words with me. They laugh at the stories, spit disgust at the nature of her horrendous family, and ask questions of words which don’t quite register in their youthful brains.

This, to me, is perfection.

Among the first few pages reads a passage which rings true, deep in my soul. “So Matilda’s strong young mind continued to grow, nurtured by the voices of all those authors who had sent their books out into the world like ships on the sea. These books gave Matilda a hopeful and comforting message: You are not alone.”  I read these words aloud, and I see the wonder in the eyes of my oldest, the one who is so little like me, and yet we share such a passion for certain things. The written word is home for him, as it was for me at his age, and before.   There is no place I’m more comfortable, no item more fulfilling, than words on paper (or even virtual paper). We both hold dear our battered and worn books, the ones we’ve read and reread to the point of destruction. We devour books in days, if not hours, and keep stacks of them around, never knowing which we’ll want to pick back up and flip through. I love how we share this tiny little aspect. It’s just ours, it’s a connection. My father gave it to me, and I to my first born. I cherish it.

And so, we settle into our familiar routine. My beautiful boys and I nestle our weary bodies into the soft leather couch, pull an afghan onto our laps, and dive into literature. We read light and funny tales, tales of young and old, tales of animals, tales of people, tales of wild adventures.  My youngest interrupts to ask the definition of words he doesn’t recognize, and points out idioms as we stumble upon them.  My oldest howls at the instances where people get hurt, or say things which tickle his funny bone. We grow sleepy together and they still beg for one more chapter. I often relent.

My quiet time with a book is matched only by my quiet time with my boys and a book. I have stacks I’ve never read, stacks I’ve read a dozen time, and lists upon lists of ones I want to read. When I find one I love, I share it with anyone who’ll listen. Literature, chick lit, fantasy, non-fiction, history, science… I love it all. I find comfort in the words, peace in the worlds, and patience in stepping into the shoes of someone else. Books are my friends, and they are my luxury.

The people around me laugh at how out of touch I am with pop culture and television. Name a show and I’ve potentially heard of it, but I’ve likely never seen it. But an author? Chances are I know him/her, and can tell you another book which you’d like if you have one you’re telling me about. In this way, I’m an alien to the digital world. Often the butt of jokes due to my lack of screen time outside my work, I tend to just shrug my shoulders and remind people that television just isn’t my pleasure.

I once tried to decipher what it is about a good book which draws me in. I tried to figure out why I can sit and indulge for hours on end. I wanted to know how I can connect so intimately with a character from a page, whose face I’ve never seen and voice I’ve never heard, someone I’ve never enjoyed a conversations with, in a way where their heartache becomes mine. I laugh with these people. I cry with them. I mourn their losses and cheer at their triumphs. How is it that I’m so deeply entrenched?  The answer, as coincidence would have it, came from an author. F. Scott Fitzgerald once said, “That is part of the beauty of all literature. You discover that your longings are universal longings, that you're not lonely and isolated from anyone. You belong.”  And so it was, in my childhood days, the one way I found to make sense of the chaos that was my life. I felt out of touch, out of sorts and out of place. I never felt comfortable in my own skin and always felt so completely alone… unless I had a book. My books made me a part of something bigger, something grander, something exciting and pure. And, no matter what fires were raging in the world around me, they offered me solace and safety.

Books are my décor. My face lights up in a used book store. The classics are warm blankets, new best sellers are exciting trips to foreign lands. I take photos of books I want to read, make lists, send copies of things I love to people I know will also appreciate them… For me, as it has always been and I suspect it will always be, the written word provides the truest form of peace, hope and entertainment in the world.

I read, therefore I am.

Pharrell Williams is a Genius

I'm happy.

That's an odd thing for me to say. It's been a trying couple of years, and the past six months have tried to kill me. Not quite, but almost literally.

Every day a new obstacle appears in my path and each one seems comical at this point.

Of course the basement flooded and yet another big bill tacked on to my balance sheet, taking my littlest little man's baby book from me in the process! 

Of course the truck sprang an oil leak! 

Of course there's a client dinner following a day where I got no real work done! 

Of course my kiddo got the flu followed by a double ear infection! 

Of course the nanny quit right before spring break and I can't interview anyone! Ha!

Bring it on!

I've taken to laughing at this point.

A few months ago, upon recommendation. I read "Daring Greatly" by Brene Brown. This is one of the most powerful things I've ever done for myself. Among a plethora of amazing lessons, she reminded me to practice gratitude. See, it's really easy to let the burdens of life take over; being a slave to the difficulties life throws at us, and allowing those things to control your mood and define your outlook is so simple. But, the weight of that choice takes its toll. Instead, be thankful for what is good in your life. Every. Single. Day. Do you have a place to sleep? How about food? A job? People who you care for and/or who care for you? Do you have limbs which work? A brain which functions? How about the fact that you're breathing when so many no longer have that option? Be thankful. 

As for the bad stuff?

Square your shoulders. Take a breath. Smile. Repeat.

Believe it or not, this is actually a great way to be happier. Just make the choice and do it. Yes, it really is that simple. My life is blow after blow, terrible news compounded with more terrible news, and heartache at every turn. So much so that one of my amazing bosses gave me a book this morning entitled  "Be Still, My Soul; Embracing God's Purpose & Provision in Suffering." Seriously.

And yet, I'm happy. Why? Because I choose it.