Ever since leaving two years ago, home has been a word that gives me pause. I clutch every time I’m inclined to use it. It’s as if in leaving, I gave up my right to the word. Like friendship and love and lots of other words that contain various depths – I struggle to distinguish between those times I felt deeply and fully at home and those other times when the feeling was slightly less.
Two years ago, I left when a relationship ended and I felt like I had lost everything – like I needed a new start. I left because I was feeling this strange mix of failure, recklessness, and adventure. I left because I needed to go somewhere to lick my wounds in private. There were too many people who cared about me and I couldn’t stand the fact that no matter how much they wanted to help, they wouldn’t be able to. I didn’t want them to see me tormented or struggling, bummed and trying to figure out how to move forward or through. When we trip, we look back at what tripped us up and we look around to see who’s watching. I didn’t want anyone to know I had tripped.
Today, Friday, I stopped in at my old office and talked with former colleagues – a word that doesn’t do them justice and is wholly inadequate. Seeing them filled my heart. I don’t like referring to co-workers as family and I have this weird need to distinguish between work and life, co-workers and friends. So, somewhere between family, co-workers, and friends these people made me feel extra special and missed today, made me feel like I had made a difference – to them and to the community.
After spending a few hours with my colleagues, I left on a bit of a high. I checked in to my hotel, texted some friends to make plans and made my way over to a bar that I used to frequent. The place was empty. Tim, the bartender, greeted me by name as though I had never left. My former co-worker-family-friend people posted some pictures of my visit to Facebook saying I made their weekend (they made mine too). My former boss jokingly texted me – what the hell, the window to say hi opened and closed pretty quickly. She was not in the office when I stopped by. She sent pictures of the kids. We texted about work. I told one of my friend-co-worker-family people that the bartender remembered my name and she responded with “you’re home!”
…
On my way to a pizza shop in the town where I used to live, I took a small detour and drove through my old neighborhood. It was a strange sensation. It was odd to think that I spent twelve years of my life in that house, on that street. I thought about how my wife and I raised our daughter in that neighborhood. I thought about the many many times I walked through the little patch of woods at the end of a dead-end drive and down the canal path to town. I thought about the moving in and the moving out – the truck in the driveway, the loading and the unloading. I thought about the Memorial Day parade that started on our street and how the peonies in the front yard were always in full bloom. I thought about the days I had to leave because the house was being shown – the cats, sitting in the car with me in a parking lot. I thought about how a sense of place bookmarks time periods in our lives. There was a sense of finality to visiting the neighborhood. This was a time in my life.
When I left, it was partially because I thought I had lost everything… or maybe something slightly less dramatic than that. I had a sense that there really wasn’t much left for me, not there. Going back, I can see just how much there was. I’ve always felt that “home” is more than a building. It’s the people and places, family and friends, coffee shops and bars. It is a place that provides a sense of context for everything else. Going back, it was nice to feel that again.
It’s only been two years (one in Memphis and one in State College) but it has felt like a lifetime since I last visited. I loved seeing and spending time with people I care about. I enjoyed re-visiting a few favorite bars. I even found some time to read and write, process and reflect. I had to think a little harder as I tried to remember the different roads I was driving. Some of the towns looked different – new buildings, new stores… I’m different too.