One month ago yesterday, with weight in our eyes and wings in our hearts, Dave and I handed over the keys to our beloved home’s new owner. Since then, we have slept in five different hotels, two different AirBnB’s, and one cottage across a total of eight states. This does not count the many other nights throughout June we spent sleeping on our best friends’ floor on an air mattress, floating, unanchored in a homeless sky.
The transition has been sloppily packaged, wrapped in soft cloth of denial. Our friends shared private glances, eyes asking the question Dave and I did a subtle and private dance of avoiding: “When are they going to pack?” Scattered all over their house were our belongings: laundry baskets and suitcases and toiletries and bins and boxes of tissues and dirty clothes and books and phone chargers and remaining kitchen goods, knuckled roots of a thirsty tree expanding wide, a deep ache for soil and earth.
I write this as we make the cross-country drive: Colorado, Nebraska, Iowa, Illinois. There are goodbyes to be had there, too. However, there is no home to which I return. Even in the place I was born, I am homeless. In the GPS of my heart, there is a void where my parents used to be, where my sister used to be.
We look forward to the peace and quiet and stillness of Dave’s parents’ home. There, we will find air and sun and moisture to nurture our transplanted roots. But, still, we will be homeless, hovering between here and there, then and now.
On the 22nd of this month, we will walk into our new place, a beautiful and modern two-story apartment that overlooks the juxtaposition of verdant trees and steely high rises, a cityscape version of a middle school dance.
Then, we will be home.
Until then, even then, I will breath in and out, grounded in that which never changes: Presence.