Finding Home

For the past five years I have moved in and out of apartments, houses and hotels looking for a home. Home, that fully-encompassing sensation that spreads a cellular warmth from the inside-out; the feeling that turns on your personal hearth nestled in the capsule of your chest, and spills coziness into every crevice and corner. The homey feeling that brushes a blushed or golden tone around your field of vision and ends with a satisfying sigh that expresses the most solid realization, ‘I have arrived.’

Why would a person move around so much? What I find appealing about new places, spaces and moves is the clean-slate notion of starting fresh-- no bad juju, no past mistakes, messes or sticky corners, in both the literal and metaphorical sense. That, in itself is a grand, gleaming yes in my eyes, which consequently makes the idea of staying in a single place for an extended period of time - no matter how good or bad - one of stuck-ness, stagnation and an all-around claustrophobic affair. So, when I was getting ready to move to a new spot, even in the paper-signing process, I wasn’t sure how it would work out in reality.

It wasn’t until I brought my first box up the stairs of our third floor walk-up and opened up the door to the new empty apartment, that I thought “this is it.” It was the first time I had ever admitted, “I can see myself here for a good, long while” and imagined having a home base, a totally new twist for me. Here, I could do anything. I could begin and grow my businesses, I could travel away from, miss and come back to. Here, I could stay up late nights cooking. Here, I could play fetch with my dog and dance to music in the living room with my boyfriend just because. Here, I could enjoy my home, I could belong and I could create space for my traditions, a sense of security I had craved so much.

Contrary to what I always believed as a fond traveler, busy-body and yogi that could bring contentment and peace to a space through practicing presence, prior to my current apartment, I had not found a home that I was excited to come back to every day. Rather, I was excited by different places.

I always thought that I would be a transient character in people’s lives whose home would be wherever I’d currently be in the world; that I would travel to one place, experience and meet other characters with whom I’d exchange lessons, ideas, and stories. Then, I’d simply be off to the next destination via the swing of the universe to gather and share rich, genuine connections and fully embrace the yogic ideals of presence and letting go. I craved spontaneity, which rendered having and building a definitive and long-term place a scary stopping ground. Falling in love with an apartment equated a final destination for which I was not ready to sign up.

The definition of “home is where the heart is” was something I believed could be nurtured and cultivated. I tried to make the most of each place, knowing that I was lucky to have experienced renting in good locations and living with a friend or partner, but I couldn’t shake the feeling of not belonging, of walking on someone else’s floors. I tried gratitude lists, meditations, candles and fresh flowers to bring that lived-in feeling of home into my life. Each day I’d be excited to leave work to go to a place where I’d imagine unwinding, only to be hit with slight disappointment upon returning to a spot where I had put in a lot of effort to build up a unique coziness, that still rubbed me as undeniably cold and uncomfortable.

This brings me to re-explore the infamous quote “home is where the heart is.” When my childhood home back in California was recently sold, I reflected on memories of events and people that were held and welcomed there. I reflected on discoveries, both internal and of the crazy knick-knacks stashed away in different cabinets and corner rooms. I remembered organizing CD’s and wanting a “better,” more modern home, only now realizing that that was my home. It was the only place where we could celebrate Christmas the way we-- my mother, sister and I-- could. The only place that we could live and fight and love the Pam, Alana and Kalei way. That, our unique chaos, was home, absolutely imperfect and forever holding a precious piece of my heart.

Places and spaces can give you that ‘love at first sight’ sensation that goes beyond natural lighting or the amenities of an NYC lunchbox-sized apartment; it's a gut reaction on a deeper level. I realize that finding home doesn’t imply holding back or cutting myself off from exploring. Instead, with a space that makes my heart sing, I may be able to cultivate an even more loving home from which to explore in new ways. My relationship to my new home can also grow in warmth and in comfort as I inhabit and care for it, just like a relationship with a close friend or partnership.

I’m not sure why here, why now, but I feel like this home is finally one I can call my own-- not in an proprietary or ego-driven way but rather -- that I can connect with, finding comfort in a mutual relationship with my space. It’s funny to think of apartments as similar to romantic relationships, but in past attempts at creating a home, I was trying to make it work, to appease it, to decorate, but my attempts didn’t quite fit. As with dating, sometimes, it’s simply not meant to be. As with love, when you know, you know. When it strikes you, you get it. And when it ignites your inner hearth, you find your home.