In "Flying the Coop," I realized a few things…like I know how to move, but I don’t know how to stay. Like it’s a romantic’s choice to keep flying away. Like the result is that precious few things remain, and few things remain precious. Like riding off into the sunset can be fun, but you leave a lot behind.
This month’s Oxford American features an essay about suburban drain, and the word “solstagia” was coined, referring to our especially American lack of place, and our soul’s nostalgia for it. I can trace my wanderlust, which was really a craving for home, back to second grade when we moved from Connecticut to North Carolina, and I never felt part of. Funny thing is, Connecticut was not my family’s home; upstate New York was, and because of my lovely summers there, that’s where I longed for most of my life.
Have you moved a crazy amount of times, and how do you feel about it?
If you prefer staying in one place, why is that?
If you Goodwill and garage sale, what’s your best find?
For me, a purple can of paint is in hand every move. What’s in yours?
Do you live in a place with a sense of place?
Do you long for a certain place?
How can we create that feeling of being at home no matter where we happen to live?