Home is harder to define these days. I use the word to refer to my apartment in Belgrade, but equally often to refer to Chicago, California, and the United States in general. It's more like a sense of belonging, of safety, of restfulness that defines home for me. When I'm thoroughly finished trying and failing to communicate, or when I'm caught in the rain (again) without an umbrella*, or when bright red tomatoes hint that they are dying to become pico de gallo, my cozy apartment greets me warmly with invitations to curl up on the couch, to dry off, to taste the familiar flavors of home.
But when the conversation calls for stories, or reminds me of a long-standing inside joke shared with friends, I find myself telling of Evanston, of friendships, of another kind of home. Fully known and loved, welcome to be myself, invited to fullness of life.
And slowly, that's the kind of home I hope to build here. Today, I am staking my claim by hanging up real, framed pictures on the walls, a small piece of one home shaping another.
* This happens frequently, because I do not own an umbrella.
But when the conversation calls for stories, or reminds me of a long-standing inside joke shared with friends, I find myself telling of Evanston, of friendships, of another kind of home. Fully known and loved, welcome to be myself, invited to fullness of life.
And slowly, that's the kind of home I hope to build here. Today, I am staking my claim by hanging up real, framed pictures on the walls, a small piece of one home shaping another.
* This happens frequently, because I do not own an umbrella.
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