I've had a nomad soul for as long as I can remember. Maybe it's from growing up in a tiny northwestern MT town that I knew I wanted to leave or living abroad in places I loved but was never a native or marrying a military man which meant a home always in flux... I guess from a combination of all of it -and more that I can't put into words - I've never really felt "at Home." — Like what exactly does that even mean? The roof you lay down under each night or something much more nuanced? Perhaps, ironically, not even tangible at all?
So home is a loose term around here. But especially so in the last 12 months. In that time Forrest has called 4 different places "home." He gets frustrated when I reference one of the latest iterations, stomping his foot and furrowing his brow in exasperation: "But, WHICH one, mommy?" Granted, his daddy has also been gone at least half of that time, he begrudgingly welcomed in a little sister, mommy went back to work full time and he had to say goodbye to a cousin that was way more like a sister. So, in retrospect, maybe pillow placement wasn't the biggest deal.
We've been intentional with our children to foster a spirit of independence, flexibility and adaptability. From the earliest days, I've always wanted them to know and understand the world in as broad a way as I could possibly show them. I want them to not just hear, but actually see and feel that the world is big, cultures and places are wonderfully strange, and different is not bad, but instead cause for exploration and celebration. And yes, along the way, there will probably be some stretching: things that aren't comfortable or nice or neat or in your control or part of your plan. You may get rocked. Your vision may shift. Your perspective change. And all that is ok. It's good. In fact, if exploring the world doesn't involve those things, something is wrong.
Still, this little farmhouse that we are renting for the foreseeable future feels like more of a “home” than we’ve had in a long while. Tote after tote after tote that has been sequestered away in multiple storage units for years is now seeing the light of day, and this morning, I hung a picture on a wall—something I haven’t done in a really long time. It’s ironic, because as beautiful as this little setting is and as grateful as we are to have found it, it’s actually not where we see ourselves for very long either.
Where we want to call home is a one-of-a-kind hangar/house project on our Northern Michigan property.
Yeah, I know … some imagination and vision is a must. But we do, at least, have that in spades. After a crazy tumultuous year, during which I really questioned the decision to come north, it is still the one and only place that makes me feel at peace up here. It encompasses a vision so unique and utterly ours that it’s the only place that actually does feel like home—even prematurely.
We envisioned moving into it mere months after pulling up stakes in NC, and now, nearly a year later, can only stare at the Tyvek flapping in the wind and the naked 2x4’s inside and cringe. The why’s and hows of the whole emotional, incredibly frustrating saga of it are a little irrelevant here and now, but suffice it to say, we’re not giving up. It is just going to take more time, more blood, more sweat, and yes, I'm sure, more tears.
Through the whole process, and as we get settled into our most recent "home for now," I'm reminded over and over of the call on our lives to trust and hope. And it's not a call for just a little bit of hope or a little bit of trust. It requires us going all in. Over and over and over. We hold nothing back, though we see only small glimpses of what the future might be. We dream big; we choose boldness; we live in adventure.
... And maybe most important, we recognize that no matter how exciting the prospect of our finished build is, home is not, in fact, Tyvek and 2x4's. It always has been and always will be: us.