“I long, as does every human being, to be at home wherever I find myself.” — Maya Angelou
I’ve dealt with hesitant reservations regarding the intangible concept of “home” for some time. Home, faith, love — words filled with unseen meaning, yet pregnant with possibility, importance, and longing.
I lived with my parents, then a collegiate apartment with a revolving door of roommates, a house that has never quite felt like my own, another apartment in the same college town four years later, and now — South Korea. However, I’ve never really been able to comfortably refer to any of these places as my home.
I no longer have a room to call mine at my parent’s house, my own house is being rented out to a stranger, and apartments are transitory in the most direct way. (Although we are no longer living in a hotel, so that’s a positive.)
But recently, I’ve realized that home isn’t necessarily a place. It’s a state of mind. Since arriving here, I’ve been so free of the burgeoning anxiety that America seems to generate.Perhaps it’s simply the change of scenery; and the fact that Jared and I are discovering new sights, foods, sounds, and adjusting to a new way of living, as well as new jobs. And yet, despite all the differences, I still feel at home — because I am with Jared, because I am happy, because I am endeavoring to be at home anywhere.