This is Life Now.
East River State Park/ Cory Goldman
If you Google “home,” an endless amount of cheesy quotes will pop up that will serve as the perfect inspiration for your latest Pinterest board DIY décor. Typically they support the idea that home is not a physical place, but rather a feeling, a person, a notion that the word means so much more. Needless to say, you don’t need me to lecture you on the importance of the word home. A lifetime has taught you that there’s so much more to the word than the place where you sleep, eat and shower.
My childhood moving around as a military kid inevitably led me to this conclusion very early on. If someone asked where I was from, I couldn’t quite answer. Instead I would recite where I was born, where I grew up, where I graduated high school, and where I currently lived. These geographic locations were the best way to explain that I couldn’t provide a single answer in response to the question “What is home?” After all, each place I lived helped to shape me. Each place provided a different experience, a different piece of who I currently am.
To me, home is a feeling that I easily recognize. It is a second where all goes still and quiet, when I survey my surroundings and the first thought that comes to mind is “Damn, how lucky am I to be here and feel comfortable.” Because ultimately, I think that’s what a home is. A place that brings you comfort. Where you look around and recognize that a place will change you for the better. If I could pick the best synonym for my idea of home it would be the Danish word hygge. I also know that the amount of time it will take for me to recognize this feeling continues to shift.
In Hawaii, it took almost two months to finally acknowledge the little piece of paradise in the Pacific as home. My imagination had built up false expectations of what island life would be and my inescapable notions led to obvious amount of disappointment. I was so ready for the next adventure, for a life lived on beaches in constant sunshine. But I forgot what that would mean: leaving behind friends, a routine, and my home for the past six-years. When I drove around the island I didn’t feel home, I felt homesick. And then one day, on a boat out in Kaneohe Bay, I finally felt it. I immediately remember trying to relay the feeling to other friends who longed for their old lives after their recent moves to Oahu. I think they were slightly confused by the sudden shift in my attitude. But I had felt it so clearly; I had seen that this place was important to me. It was my first time having that moment as a semi-adult, and therefore, the first time I would remember it.
Sometimes, the feeling came faster, typically expedited by the limited amount of time I would be in a certain place. For example, I had my moment in Paris within the first week. The feeling took over my soul quite quickly on the first night in my homestay as I looked around at the appropriately named City of Lights. While the bottle of Very Pamp may have contributed to the warmth I felt inside, I think it was the faint glow of important landmarks around the city, many which had been there for centuries. Each construction was a little piece of history that acknowledged all the people who had sought amenity here before me, and the millions who would come after.
Which brings me to the present. To be honest, I had been waiting for that feeling to come over me once more after arriving in New York. But I can’t deny that it’s been slightly odd to recover the idea. I think it’s weird to move back to a place, at such a different stage of your life, under different circumstances and ultimately in a very different location. Last fall I had built a routine in Nolita. On mornings I would go to Joe & The Juice for an overpriced drink, followed by evenings roaming the isles of Whole Foods or taking a class at the local gym. I had a Laundromat that let me wash my own clothes (which felt like an anomaly in Manhattan). And even though I walked almost 12 minutes carrying excessively large loads to and from my apartment, it just contributed to this idea that my life was truly in New York City. The best way to describe it was that even though I loved exploring the city and it’s different locations, at the end of the day Nolita brought the comfort of home. I felt at peace in the area whether it was sitting in the tiny park on Elizabeth St., eating falafel from Taïm, walking along Bowery, or listening to loud strangers strolling the streets below my apartment.
When I thought of home in New York, my mind would wander back a year to Nolita. I took any opportunity to return to it. Because when I went back, I had something to reminisce over on every street. With each step, I felt more grounded. But that’s the crazy thing. Nolita wasn’t home anymore. It was only a home in the sense of all the places I had lived before. I had to move beyond what once felt comfortable to reestablish myself in a life I hadn’t expected a year ago.
I don’t live in Nolita. I’m not an intern at Bustle. I’m not a senior in college. I’m not quite the same person.
I am also not what I personally imagined for myself a year ago, and that’s really, really hard to admit. There’s also a level of acceptance in saying that. Because while I’m on the path to taking on the best attributes of the person that I imagined, I will never be that fictional creation. And I don’t want to be.
Which leads me to this weekend. As you probably guessed from the title and the lead up, I had my moment again. I think I caught the first wave as I sat outside on the patio of the Laundromat. Not the most glamorous place, I know. But there was a slight breeze that caught the wind just right rustling the leaves on the trees. I had a book in my hands and was comfortably lounging in the secluded space with the scent of laundry (and possibly fall) overtaking me. I closed my eyes and thought, for just one second, is this finally it?
It wasn’t.
No, the real moment came the next day. Sitting in Central Park with Sarah, watching families at play while basking in the setting sun. There were a few kites in the sky, some silver tinsel and a few plastic bags (I can’t get too picturesque on you here). And that warmth came over me as I just took in this moment, the company of a friend and strangers alike. I finally had that feeling of home for my life now. For my little apartment in Bushwick, for the local coffee shop, for nights at the Johnson, for explorations with my roommate, for small grocery runs at Mr. Lemon, for sunsets in Brooklyn watching the orange light slowly trace Manhattan’s outline.
Because now, when I come out of the L subway stop at DeKalb, I let out a sigh of relief. Finally, I am moving on to the next stage. This is home.