I Like Coming Home?

I recently climbed the stairwell to my new apartment with a bag full of groceries and thought this distinct thought: I like coming home.

It startled me, and I immediately recognized its significance. Because I couldn't remember the last time I'd thought this thought. It certainly wasn't at my last apartment in the boonies, grateful though I was for the necessary void it filled.

Alas — it's been years since I truly enjoyed coming home.

Friends and family helped me haul my things out of storage last week (thanks y'all!), and now begins the process of de-boxing, hanging things on walls, arranging furniture, and otherwise making this dwelling place with ceilings and floors and walls and giant windows a home.

With all the bustle of loved ones helping me move, getting groceries and other supplies, driving long hours for Lyft and Uber, and writing in coffee shops, I hadn't actually spent a moment of enjoyment at my new apartment until just the other night.

I crashed on my giant bean bag and lost consciousness almost immediately — both from exhaustion and delight, I think.

I slept in my car quite a number of times on the road this summer. Back when I was living in the boonies earlier this year, I packed lunches and often napped in grocery store parking lots in between coffee shop writing sessions and appointments, rather than make multiple treks back and forth.

Taking a nap in my actual home? What a concept. What a long overdue, simple, yet profound thing for my life.

I look forward to many more homey naps to come.

A place to host friends and family.

A place to write.

A place to record YOBcasts.

A place to cook.

A place to relearn guitar.

A place to stare out my giant living room window and watch the wild turkeys.

A place to smile and laugh.

A place to contemplate and cry.

A place to exhale.

A place to call home.

A place to like.