Less than a week. Five more wake-ups, to be precise (plus some restless sleep on a long plane ride, if that counts). And then we’ll be home.
It’s always interested me, the places we denote as “home.” I refer to visiting my parents for Christmas as “going home,” even though I’ve never lived in the house they live in, in the town or state they live in now; home is also the apartment where Michael and I are staying in California, temporarily, when we’re coming “home” from the grocery store; and still, in many ways, I refer to Seattle as home. But I’ve started to call Sydney home, as well. It feels right.
Throughout what has seemed like never-ending travels, I haven’t cared too much where we are, provided Michael and I are together. I can’t say I feel uprooted anymore; to me that would imply a stronger homesickness than I’m actually experiencing, though I do miss Seattle. Lately I’ve been more like one of those plants that grow in the air, without soil, roots reaching and stretching in all directions, seeking nourishment from any possible place. I’m comfortable everywhere and nowhere.
But with this new project, I’m truly looking forward to going home, to Sydney. To our balcony with the amazing views, to lazy weekends with BBQ pork buns and bubble tea, to Friday night dive bar karaoke. I’m always excited at the start of a new project. Like the beginning of a school year, it feels like anything is possible, that through this new undertaking, I can craft a better, or stronger, or wiser version of me. I feel open to a storm of potential.
Kelly Wanders 