My life lately, and particularly last year, was defined so much by movement – flying, driving, planning a destination, getting there, leaving, exercising, running. Repeating. As I’m writing this, I am sitting in an empty, overly bland airport in the middle of LA on our nation’s biggest holiday. With all the movement, what i am trying to get close to is the feeling of warmth and prickles of moving butterflies in the pit of my belly.
Coming back to visit my parents is always an interesting feeling. I always see the contrast of a life that I’m leaving behind, even if it’s only for a few days. And the feeling is reversed when I fly back to the Bay Area. I feel very much like I miss both, though the feeling of acceptance is in neither cities. Yet the familiarity of both cities is very much like home. But I feel the most “at home” when I am constantly moving – from place to place, exploring and wandering, time a non-issue.