Having a place to come back to and having a place to come home to are entirely different things. I have many places to go back to, some of them feel very homey. One of them is the house I grew up in, can’t get much more home than that. But I don’t actually live anywhere. I’m transient, wanderous, without roots. The majority of my stuff is in storage, the rest is scattered about friend’s houses, garages, vans. Even my dog friend, Gala is (happily) with a friend who has a bit of land and graciously allowed her to come and stay for a time (longer than we both expected) until I worked out exactly what was going to happen next.

The summer happened next. A summer incomparable to any before it with a plethora of parties, a font of festivals, an excess of events, an array of alliterable adventures. At one point, it felt there was barely time to breathe between one and the next.

There were many moments when I was grateful to my mom for overlooking the invasion of totes filled with dirty rope lights to be cleaned and recoiled, tent and sleeping bags airing over the balcony railing, laundry, decompression, laundry, sleeping for 15 hours, laundry.
I was also grateful that I didn’t have a place of my own in those moments. No plants to be concerned for, no rent to be paid on a place I would have barely been living at( which is good because I’m still working on the balance of festival work vs being paid a living wage) no food rotting in the fridge, no responsibility beyond making sure my truck is running smoothish and I have enough cash in pocket to get me to the next show.

And it was amazing. I am unbelievably fortunate to be in a position where I could have a summer like that. I’d like to find a way to do it so that I can find that balance between the festival parade and the living wage. That will take some time and it’s okay because I see the light (often literally) and I can be patient (I’m learning).

But I can’t do it without a place to call home. It’s so time. I’m so tired. As has been reflected in the last few posts I’ve written. Yes, travel and adventure are exciting. Yes being nomadic is liberating. Am I crazy to want the other side of the coin? There is a part of me that is screaming yes. But there’s a quieter part, further down, who is gently reminding me that I worked two jobs for a time in order to look good for a bank in order to buy a property because there’s a very real appeal to having something that is mine, however tenuous the reality that dictates we can “own” a piece of a planet we were born on seems to be. That quiet voice doesn’t change her mind a whole lot. She is not distracted by shiny like the upper voices. She is not swayed by sounds and smells and sights and the inevitable adventure that waits around every corner. She would be like Henry Beamish except that she doesn’t seek to escape from everyone to find the quiet place to read, she would like to incorporate the quiet place into the existence we already have. As quiet as a place can be with a black dog on guard from squirrels and bears.
Now that the activity is slowing down and the seasons are shifting, so is my focus. Towards a place of balance where I can have the adventures and then come home. Or have the adventure of creating a home so cozy and appealing, I won’t need to leave for a time. That will be lovely.