From Maya Angelou, Letter To My Daughter:
"I am convinced that most people do not grow up. We find parking spaces and honor our credit cards. We marry and dare to have children and call that growing up. I think what we do is mostly grow old. We carry accumulation of years in our bodies and on our faces, but generally our real selves, the children inside, are still innocent and shy as magnolias.
We may act sophisticated and worldly but I believe we feel safest when we go inside ourselves and find home, a place where we belong and maybe the only place we really do."
On the road, I have now been, since December 2015. The place I was born, rural Midwest Wisconsin, contains my roots, and yet no longer has a remaining certainty that once seemingly reined true;
This no longer felt like "home."
Rewind to 2008. I packed my Mazda 3 to the rim after attending to some minor business (becoming a high school graduate and becoming a legal adult and all.) I drove off from Wisconsin, landed across the country in San Diego, to have then moved more times than my ten fingers could keep count. I was on an observational journey in this new world of palm trees and froyo, and far, far away from Fargo accents, my ancestors and cheese curds.
Four years later and still in search of what I could potentially call "home", I made my way North to Los Angeles. I "settled down" for four years and continued to pay an astronomical fee in exchange for a residing residence within the neighborhood of Larchmont Village. I loved the San Francisco vibe and community gathering feel it had within this quaint, charmingly historic hub bordering the bustling City of Lost Angeles around it. My apartment neighbored Paramount Studios and the Hollywood Sign starring at me outside my front door, and yet ---
I still could not identify with this being called "home."
Even when the numbered code happened to be of a more prestigious sort within the zip code 90212 (neighboring in the flats of Beverly Hills 90210, walking distance to the shopping capital of the US on Rodeo Drive with 5 star restaurants and people who call themselves stars),
I just couldn't convince myself to identify this as "home" either.
So what is "home"? As a traveling gypsy and nomad these past months, I've truly enjoyed my time on the open road. As I look beyond the quotations, beyond the labels, beyond the white picket fence, I see this wide open space, and in this space is the most solid foundation I've come to know.
No matter what space I currently reside in on the outside, I can always find where my true home resides and that, I've come to believe, is on the inside. I have traveled thousands and thousands of miles to now find that I am the closest to hOMe that I have felt in a very, very long time. It feels good to stop and be present with the magnolias in A Space to Be & Love.
Want to get the next article sent straight to your inbox? Just click HERE to provide The Magical Field with your email address and I'll be sure to notify you with updates, field notes and tiny reminders of life's magical moments.