this contradicts what i said yesterday

I keep thinking back on a conversation I had with a couple who moved to Seattle around the same time I did. None of us are in places that are by any means permanent to our lives. We are renting. We are waiting. What is home? What does it feel like to be “home”?

I spent a lot of today moping, planning out what I want my life to be like. Where I want to live next. Where I’ll find space to make pottery and paint. Where I’ll be happy.

After some intense Jesus-talk and writing and taking space to finally clear out some of the heaviness, I walked to the end of the bridge. In that place, that one little strip of sidewalk overlooking the Sound, I feel at home.

In front of me, I see Sodo’s characteristic cranes; the lights of West Seattle, the more distant lights of the islands. A long cloud of light hangs over it all in the darkness. Waves push into the land with a comforting sigh. I smell salt.

Behind me, the Space Needle glows in its galactic awe, and downtown glimmers like the sun on the water. Cars hum; electricity whirs. I stand in the place where city meets sea.

Rain boots hug my toes, and puppy leash in-hand, Jesus thoughts in-heart, I feel a rare sense of content.

I don’t know what I want in my life. I thought I wanted to travel. I thought I wanted to live many places. But here I am--called to the city and happy. There is a street one block from me that has full maples with hanging leaves; I like to stand under them, smell the green, close my eyes, and pretend I am in the woods.

I come home to our stuffy apartment. Two walls of books enclose me. The critters I love most are constantly moving, like the second hand on a clock—the turtle’s clunky walk, the puppy’s clicking steps.

Here it is, folks: this is home.