Some places always feel like coming home.
But for me, home has never been a box with rooms, a yard, and a white picket fence. I tried. I really did. One might even say I over did it. Less than two years ago I spent my days behind a giant desk in a small office with nothing on the stark white walls except for the law degree that I had spent the last three years of my life earning. I was restless, I couldn't focus, and I definitely wasn't at home.
I'd think a lot about how I ended up behind that desk. WHY I'd ended behind that desk. When I was really little I wanted to be a doctor. Then there was a relatively long stretch when I was going to be an entomologist. Somewhere along the lines I let myself flirt with the idea of being a photographer, a journalist, a veterinarian, conservation biologist. I could go on and on. Point is, at no time do I remember wanting to be a lawyer. And all those paths I didn't take, they haunted me every day. So I quit. No, it wasn't as simple as that. But that's the most important part.
I'm still working out the how and the why. Mostly so I can make sure that I don't end up planning my life instead of living it again. I definitely don't have it all figured out. You could even say I'm wandering. I'm trying to remember who I was before the world told me who I should be. I can feel little pieces of that person returning when I'm on top of a mountain, swimming in an alpine lake, or wandering down a dirt path. For me that's home. That's where all the world's distractions and expectations quietly fade into the distant background and I'm able to finally see the forest past the trees.