This morning I woke up on a new couch to all new smells. Often I feel strange about the fact that I have no place to call home, to come back to, to feel my heart settled with that familiar belonging.

But then I remember that its because I have no home, that I can live anywhere. I make home wherever I go. I lived at a hostel on Ometepe Island for the past 3 months and covered the sides of my bunkbed with draped sheets and dresses, turning a simple bed into a room that looked and smelled of all my comfy familiarities with almost all the privacy I needed. About 4 years ago, on a solo trip without my husband at the time, I remembered thumping my bag down on the floor in my new room, and in that moment I heard in my mind, “home is wherever I put my bag down for the night.” I understood that home is where I am at any time, and my bag holds the comforts. But never has this idea been more tested than in the past 2 and a half years, of continuous, living out of a bag. I understand it so much better now. I understand the beauty of the idea, but also the inherent vulnerability.

Some day I will settle down, build my treehouse, and share it and everything in it with a beautiful travelling spirit and lover. Someone who not only understands but feels the need for both. Someone who has searched for home and finds comfort with me, there, and wherever we travel together.