Storytime: Is This Home?

Is this home? 

I asked this as my plane descended into Seattle at dusk, the day after Christmas. Only 30 hours prior, I had left Bali’s hot pink sunsets. Looking out the window at the orange, mountain-laden sky, I wondered if this was home anymore.

Is this home? 

It once was. And maybe it still is. But in another way. In an old nostalgic way. In a you-can-have-more-than-one-home kind of way. The mountains still captured my attention. The ferries still excited me. 

But did I feel like I had come home? No. Did I feel like I had returned somewhere familiar? Not really. Is it a place I like to visit? Yes—that’s how it’s grown to feel to me. A city I love to attend as a venue—the backdrop for a month-long stay or family time. 

But home? I couldn’t say it felt that way. It had become too foreign, changed, altered. Not in a bad way and not in a way that doesn’t work for so many people--including my friends and family. But it had outgrown me. Or I’d outgrown it. Or we’d simply grown in different directions.

Can home be like a relationship? Something both parties have to take part in? A mutual give and take of love and affection? Of offering something to the place, and the place offering something back? Had I offered Seattle all I had to give, and she all she can to me? 

Above the clouds the mountains etched crispy clean lines into the sky’s canvas. Below, the thick clouds covered any view of the city, and as we dropped down into the fog, I waited for Seattle to appear. After what felt like too long to pass through the clouds, we were still surrounded by fog. No clarity. 

Suddenly, the plane started to change directions and we were rapidly ascending, back up and out of the clouds. Moments later the captain notified us that visibility was poor, and he needed to fly back up to where it was clear before heading back in from another direction. 

Of course he did. Of course he needed to pull out of the thickness, see the bigger picture, and come back in from a new direction.

Back above the clouds, I watched the scene through the plane window. Like the ocean, the clouds crashed in waves. Peaking and tumbling across the sandy sky. I watched the turmoil with new eyes. No longer wondering about how I’d feel when we went under. No longer curious about “home” or “not home,” but rather reminded of Bali’s quiet ocean, her warm skies, and soft goodbye. Reminded of my ability to resurface and re-observe when the world feels to hazy and unclear.

Let’s go down. I thought. I’m ready to take the plunge.  I’ve readied my equipment. This may not be my ocean anymore, but it’s one I know how to swim in. And I can always come up for air.