Monday, July 30, 2012


After a long night of travel I arrived home and dropped my luggage near the front door.  My laptop bag toppled over, a book slid out, and I didn't care.  My next stop was the bathroom where I carefully removed the contacts from my dry, bloodshot eyeballs.  Too tired to unpack my glasses, I stepped apprehensively into my bedroom, careful to watch for blurry blobs of color on the floor, which were surely the shoes I had peeled off on my way from the living room to the bathroom, and climbed into my unmade bed.  I was still fully dressed.

Just before crashing into a much needed slumber, I wiggled down under the purple, cotton sheet while my thoughts hung in a strange parallel:  peaceful to be at home in Kansas while also homesick for my friends in Arizona.  I channeled Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz and imagined clicking my ruby red heels together: "There's no place like home."  

'Home' for me is truly cliche.  Home is where my heart is, but my heart doesn't belong to one place or one person.  My heart is broken into sections and pieces, each one specifically labeled and color coded,  each belonging to a different person or place. That night, the piece reserved for Arizona, and the people that make that destination special, ached.  The piece belonging to Kansas, to normalcy and to cooler temperatures, eased me to sleep.

It's amazing how many ways my heart can be cut up (sounds gruesome, doesn't it?) and given away to a person or group of people.  Sometimes it feels like there's no more room to add any one or any place else to it, but after spending all of last week in the middle-of-nowhere Missouri working at a teen camp, I have found my heart all rearranged, re-coded, re-labeled, and missing the new kids and adults in my life.  I wonder, already, how they are doing and wonder when I can see them again even though I just saw them all yesterday.

The crazy awesome thing about home being where the heart is, is that no matter where I am, I am almost always at Home.