As I sit in this lonely coffee shop in San Rafael pondering how to describe my current state through writing, Ingrid Michaelson has been my rescue.
She has a beautifully scripted song, titled "Are We There Yet" that has been a bit of an anthem for me during the last few years.
"They say that home is where the heart is
I guess I haven't found my home
And we keep driving round in circles
Afraid to call this place our own
Are we there yet?"
Three years ago my mother would call me to ask when I would be "home" to the house in the harb for dinner.
I would text Alex to tell her that I would be "home" to our dorm for a movie night.
My coworkers would ask when I would be coming "home" to Yelm and the crazy that came from my cabin, B11.
Tracy and Diem always wanted to know when we would all be "home" to work on our puzzles together.
Abang would text me "O tswa kae?", where are you coming from? When will you be "home?"
My sister would pester me to come "home" asap from my internship to watch the Bachelor and bond.
Kerry would whatsapp me relentlessly to sprint "home" and save her from our host parents (that message would usually be accompanied by an incredibly desperate Kerry selfie. A+ work siempre.)
Just a few weeks ago my housemates and I would miraculously find our way "home" together at 5am after sharing in some gloriously salsaed street tacos.
Last week my father texted me to remember to feed the dogs when I got "home."
Last night, I reassured my grandparents that I would lock up after I came "home" from coffee with a friend.
Am I there yet?
Am I afraid to make home?
Location wise as well as intimately wise with other humans?
I don't think so.
I'm just searching,
waiting,
trusting.
"They say there's linings made of silver
Folded inside each raining cloud
Well, we need someone to deliver
Our silver linings now
Are we there yet?"
I'm gathering fabulous experience,
I'm sharing my heart with the world and allowing it to shape me into a more complete and aware "me."
I'm meeting people with incredible stories, minds and passions.
This is a silver lining,
until I leave.
Then, it is nothing but another hole brutally carved from my already damaged, overly pulled and ripping a the seams heart.
It's a cycle, really.
It's grown, stretched, full, shanked, shriveled, empty, mourned, revived, grown, stretched, full, shanked, shriveled, empty, mourned, revived, grown, stretched, full, shanked, shriveled, empty, mourned, revived....
"They say you're really not somebody
Until somebody else loves you
Well, I am waiting to make somebody
Somebody soon
Are we there yet?"
It's so true.
Home... though it is a location at times, I'm not there yet.
I don't have that space that is solely mine where I can go an be surrounded by the familiar,
the comfortable,
the understood.
But I have home.
It's not external, it is all within.
I have home where I have love.
And that, my friends, is an endless fount of possibility and joy eternal.
I crave a Kayla space,
but maybe that's not so important after all.
___
Last night on my way home from coffee, I ran across a homeless woman sitting on a street corner.
I took her to dinner.
For that moment she had a home.
I had a home.
Her home with me, and mine with her.
Home.
