Home without an address

I absolutely must make my bed!

My first book 🎒The Destination is Now is available everywhere books are sold!

My editor, Frances (Frankie) Story, suggested some topics for future Substack posts. This is the one I chose for this post because I often think about how much I seem to feel at home no matter where I happen to be located at any given time.

I loved the place where I grew up,

especially the swamp a block away and the weed-filled vacant lot next door where I spent so much playing, but it has not been home since 1962. Our kids grew up in our Kansas City house. It was home in every respect for those fifteen years.

The years went by quickly in the Oklahoma City house. It was during the twenty-two years in the Topeka house that things changed. The day that Mary Ann died, was the last day the house I lived in was Home.

For the following eight years, when I entered the house, it was empty and no longer felt like home. The waterfall and the back deck remained a nurturing presence. I could spend hours sitting out there when the weather allowed. I have no residual feelings of attachment to the rest of the rooms in that house. I loved the River Market loft in Kansas City, and came to feel at home with the neighbors in the building and the KC community. Kansas City will always be where Lisa and Micah grew up.

It was there that my wanderlust broke into full blossom. When I left the paid-for house in Topeka and my waterfall, I intentionally chose to rent rather than own. I grieved the loss of the beautiful landscape behind the house. We had nurtured a lovely outdoor space behind every house we lived in. I concluded that it was okay not to own the beauty, but to enjoy beauty that didn’t belong to me, to visit beauty that was in public spaces or owned by others.

I didn’t have to own it.

When I sold or gave away everything I owned I was surprised that I did not feel any sense of loss, but instead felt lighter and freer as each item, even cherished ones went to others. I did care to whom they went, whether they bought it or received it as a gift. When I sold the house in Topeka, it felt as if it was a continuing legacy since all we had done to make it friendly to someone with mobility issues would benefit the new owners. I had that same feeling as others received bits and pieces of my history.

So, what now?

How do I experience home without having a place of my own. Four years of renting the loft helped me transition from having permanent possession of the space to a more abstract approach to Home. The reality is, even if I had stayed in a house for my entire life, it would not be permanent. Nothing is permanent. I am not permanent. The continents have drifted to where they are now and are still drifting. I have a feeling of freedom that has come with no longer having the illusion of permanence. I am no longer attached to a place. I don’t, however, feel lost and alone, belonging nowhere. I belong where I am. I make myself at home wherever I happen to be with whoever owns the space in which I am staying. I have been thinking a lot about how I do that.

Yes, I have to make my bed!

When I am in an Airbnb or even a hotel, I take a shower after I get up in the morning and then make my bed. When Mary Ann was struggling with advanced Parkinson’s disease and needed much care, life was often chaotic, and we were never sure how things would go on any given day. I made our beds as soon as possible every morning. There was little else I could control, but I could make the damn bed!

In any hotel/motel room in which I stayed over the year, those servicing the room, never saw an unmade bed. Even when I am staying in a hostel, I straighten up the bunk each morning I am there.

My backpack contains a number of gallon plastic bags, each holding a number of clothing items, toiletries, an Aeropress coffee maker (plus hand grinder and coffee beans). If where I am staying has space and I will be there for a while, I take them out and line them up, retrieving the items as needed. From the time I walked the Camino, I realized that I needed nothing more than I could carry with me in a backpack. I just needed to have clean clothes enough to go a few days between washes. I could use a sink if need be to wash them, and if necessary, could wash them in the shower (only did that a couple of times).

I also carry a smaller under-the-seat bag with my laptop, iPad, and support paraphernalia (chargers, power bank, cords). Through those electronics and, of course, my iPhone I remain in community with my family and friends. They join me for a time right there in my room wherever on the planet it is located.

In video chats I can have intimate conversations, able to read nonverbal facial expressions as well as hear their words no matter whether they are, in Vienna or Montenegro or Australia or Germany or somewhere in the US. They and all the times we have been physically present with one another are in the room with me. Even when we are only texting with one another without the visual cues, we are present with one another, and the words bring with them the context of our relationships. I have now known some of the people I have met along the way in my travels outside the US for as many as fifteen years. Among them are some of my very best friends.

When I settle into the room in which I am staying in an Airbnb or Digital Nomad space, arranging my electronics on the desk and hooking up the charging cables are part of the routine. I always check when booking a space to be sure there is a dedicated workspace. That means, a desk, desk chair, a desk lamp, and good WiFi. I try to be sure the room has a window, even if it overlooks another building.

A ritual that helps me feel at home when in a space for more than a few days, is going to the grocery store and purchasing muesli, yogurt, bananas, blueberries, a couple of kinds of tree nuts, and a plant milk for my first meal of the day. I especially like having access to a full kitchen so that I can cook simple meals. I love grocery stores. There is food there.

I am in love with food.

I love just walking the aisles and looking at it, savoring it with my eyes. I realize that sounds as if I am describing an erotic relationship. So be it!

I try to create a neighborhood wherever I am. Whether or not that works, depends on the receptivity of the other people there. I do not force myself on other people, I just look and listen for some natural entree into conversation with them and a connection with them if it emerges naturally. I try to speak and respond in a way that elicits a feeling of safety, that I can be trusted not to be judgmental or unkind. I am very intentional about creating the sort of neighborhood I want to live in for the time I am there.

I learned everything I need to know about that from Mr. Rogers (there is no room in my backpack for a cardigan). Staying in hostels does not satisfy the need for a dedicated workspace, but developing community is a piece of cake. Travelers who stay in hostels are accustomed to connecting with others quickly. The common area and kitchen are fertile spaces for relationships to begin, as are the bunk rooms for anywhere from four to a dozen travelers to sleep (earplugs are helpful if there is a snorer in the room).

With all that said, I do have a legal address where I receive mail and am registered to vote, in Louisville, KY, courtesy of my daughter Lisa’s and her husband Denis. The room I stay in is a guest room, but it has a few things in it that came with me. I do feel very much at home there and celebrate that all three of my granddaughters live in Louisville, one just across the hall from me. I also live out of my backpack when I am here. Normally I am only here six or seven weeks twice a year. It has been longer in the last couple of years due to hand surgeries to help mitigate the progression of Dupuytren’s Contracture, a genetic gift from some Viking ancestors.

I have concluded that the sensation of being home is not attached to the particular location where I am staying, instead, I bring it with me from place to place along with my backpack and electronics bag.