Thursday, August 6, 2015


Lately it seems like everyone on the internet is obsessed with traveling.  Like, it's everybody's "passion". Even my husband recently described himself as having a bit of wanderlust.

We travel a lot. We live far from our families so we travel to see them in various locations, often. We also go on vacations- both with out families and with just our little family. It's fun. Abe has been on 10 flights at the ripe age of one.

And there's so many--this will sound cliché but it's true--AMAZING places to travel to. (Does the word amazing always sound cliché to anyone else?) We want to go everywhere. New Zealand, Europe, San Francisco. My current travel dream is to bicycle tour around Iceland. I don't think that's even a thing. A few months ago I saw a Ted Talk by a travel writer and had this epiphany: I want to be a travel writer! Okay, but who doesn't? You love to travel, I love to travel, he and she both love to travel, oh yeah, and your grandma also loves to travel. Traveling is AMAZING. But really. The world is beautiful.


Despite all the beauty and amazement and exoticness of travel, every time we leave our home, I start to feel this sense of sadness. No matter where we're going. All of a sudden, I don't want to leave. It's a little premature homesickness as I set the thermostat, lock the windows, leave one light on.

As this whole scenario occurred before a recent weekend trip, I realized something. Traveling is not my passion. Traveling is wonderful. It's fun, interesting, eye-opening, worthwhile, exciting, very very important. But it's not my passion. My passion is my home.

My home is the most important place on the planet for me and just as wonderful as any vacation spot. Not (usually) as exciting. Much more mundane. But home is where I live with my family and it's where we build our family. We watch our baby turn into a person and feel deep love and appreciation for our daily life. Most of my living, loving, growing, writing, parenting, and learning happens at my home. These things are sacred to me. These things are turning my home into a sacred place for me. Shouldn't we all live on ground hallowed by the best efforts of our own lives?

It's kind of ironic that I am thinking about this right now, because we don't own a home. We rent a condo. We like the Phoenix but this won't be our home forever. In a few years our condo will turn into someone else's home. (Or, I don't know, maybe it will just turn into their house, their residence. Maybe it won't be home to them the way it is to us). But for now this little 1100 square foot condo contains the most important part of our world.

It's also ironic for me to be writing about this because we are going on a very exciting vacation to Hawaii in under two weeks. (I wrote this in May. Vacation has come and gone and it was awesome). We have been planning on this for a year and a half, not even exaggerating a little bit. That's longer than Abe has even been alive. We have the guide books, we have the swimsuits, we're gonna buy a go-pro, I mean we are going all out. We are so excited. It is going to be a complete and utter delight.

But what will happen the morning we leave? I already know. I'll set the thermostat, lock the windows, leave on light on, and all of a sudden, I won't want to go. Once we get there, the blue ocean and perfect whether and green jungle will suck me in and I'll never want to leave. But we will leave, and what I've realized is, that upon returning home I'll find that where we are is just as wonderful as where we were.

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