Today completes my second week of classes. I am enjoying my new position, and learning so much from the students and the overall experience.
While work is going well, I admit that the last two weeks have also provided a lot of personal frustration. Things that should be easy are overly complicated – applying for a driver’s license, obtaining a residential parking permit, finding new spots where I’d like to become a “regular.” In my fantasy land, settling into a new city is full of excitement, order, ease, and comfort. The reality has been the opposite, proving the (larger) point that building a new life requires time and patience.
This experience has led me to spend quite a bit of time considering what “home” means to me. I moved around a lot growing up – like a lot, lot. Whenever someone asked where I was from, I would say Georgia. And Georgia did feel like my home long after we moved away. This was almost entirely because of my grandparents. No matter where we lived, we would always come “home” for the holidays, family gatherings, and just-because visits. My grandma’s house felt like the most constant, consistent place I would return to, and was guaranteed to have the best “home” cooking.
When she passed away, my idea of “home” shifted to be wherever my parents were living. They hosted more events at their house, moved less frequently, and always offered me a happy and loving “homecoming.”
Today, home for me is where Luke is.
It is important for me to keep in mind that the temporary frustrations of settling into a strange city will pass, the city will become more familiar – and so will the faces. For now, I am thankful to be greeted at the end of each day by Luke, welcoming me home.