I like the idea of building a home, though the concept has not always been an easy one for me to grasp. I am the free spirit, the baby bird who jumped the nest just a bit before her wings were able to fully carry her. I have left a trail of broken hearts across the globe. People who hoped I would stay, people who hoped I wouldn't. I've caused my own heart to be broken more times than I care to recall.
All the same, there always seemed to be a nest of pine needles to soften the impact when my wings couldn't quite make it anymore.
And now that bed of needles (soft and fresh scented) is a place I like to call Boston, MA, USA. It is a group of people I like to call family more than friends.
Family is something Italy taught me, and that I had hoped would translate well to American culture upon my return here. It would seem that it has.
I have an incredible new church family, and I am (slowly, but surely) reconnecting with friends and family throughout the USA. I love it.
But I am also aware that there is a cushion for my falls still there for me in Europe. I am aware that there are still people there who are more family than friends, places that feel more "home" than "temporary dwelling place". I love it.
Once you've made some place home it never stops being that, even if you've moved away and found ways to make "home" somewhere else.
I am now at place in which it would behoove me to solidify what home and family are to me. Especially since I'll be building those things with someone else.
But then I think, I already have it, and any building will be added onto the foundation of all the fabulous experiences that have come before. I am loved. I am valued. And because I know that so surely, so strongly, it is no problem to want to make others feel that way too.