Strange thing happened to me this week. Well, I guess it would be more accurate to state that a strange thing happened to me again this week. The world reiterated to me that I have no home.
Most people consider a single place their home. Indeed, there's an interesting statistic that reveals that most Americans (and I'm sure this applies to most human beings) die within 50 miles of where they were born. I don't remember exactly where I read that, but I do remember thinking how odd that was.
As humans, we are the only species on this planet capable of going anywhere we choose, any time we choose. The world is ours to travel, to work in, to play in. Why should we die so closely to where we were born? Now, I do realize that many people simply return to where they were originally from after a lifetime of adventure, but I do also know that many people never even bother to leave the roost, so to speak. Again, why?
Anyway, this past week I worked in Atlanta, away from where I currently reside (a residence, I might add, that I do not consider "home"). And you know what? I didn't feel out of place, out of time, or any other comparative fish-out-of-water expression. I guess one could say that I felt at home. As much at home as anywhere else.
When I was in the Army I always found it amazing that people intended on returning to the very place they had left after their stint in the military was over. These people had just seen much of the world, done things they never would have done otherwise, and they wanted to return... "home."
I have my parents to thank for my attitude, I suppose. A father who never liked to stay in one place too long and a mother who has only seen her homeland a handful of times in the last 40 years.
Next year I will move again. To a place I have been before, but not one I ever properly called home, nor ever will.
I have no home. The world is my home. And I won't have it any other way.