I have come home.
Home shifts as every new experience unfolds before me. The word once hung so simply in my mind, its image undeniable: A four bedroom house on Eagle Crest Road. The fire place always burned warm as Dad led Thursday night spelling tests before Seinfeld. We had a red door, Mom put out two ceramic geese on either side in the summer. The basement belonged to the kids. As children it is where I lost in Monopoly, dodge ball, and the ultimate fight for the remote. It is where doors slammed and siblings learned how to fight. As an adolescent it is where I practiced piano and where Max showed me MTV. And as a teenager, it is where I’d where friends would read Cosmo and struggle over math homework. And sometimes, it is where Mom would venture down equipped with fresh made cookie dough to watch Carey Grant at his best.
Home. College catapulted me out of this place, only so that I’d land not so much in a home-like space, but among home-like people. Home became relationships worth leaning on in times of loneliness and stress. Home became midnight road trips with friends, it became my first language in a foreign land. It looked like summer crammed into Euro trains and hostels. When the world seemed to spin and jolt our lives every four months, home became Wednesday night wine night, or emergency trips to the beach. This is the home I still carry with me, no matter where I go. The one I draw from and turn back to when I feel most thankful for that second family.
Home. Since arriving in Uganda this word blurred, maybe even faded into the background for some time. I landed in the Entebbe airport with a six month expiration date stamped to my forehead. At first I noticed nothing of home here. Kampala starred at me from dark skinned faces and almost stunned my pale complexion. I listened hard for names and greetings, as my comfort zone spun with vertigo. But soon, streets started to pop out at me, signposts and directions etched their way into my recognition. Soon, I even learned what parts of the city smell likechicken coops, where I can find the best Indian food at the cheapest price, and how to say thank you in Luganda. The place settled around me, cautious though she might have been at first, eventually she began to reveal her finest wrinkles and best kept promises. Kampala now meets me friendly wherever I go:
“You’ve been lost.” The man behind the counter at the small shop near the taxi stand noticed my holiday absence.
“Hey you have not come to see us.” Students welcome me into their world, grab my arms and hands, led me to their Educate! tree harvesting project.
“Happy New Year. How was your holiday?” These strangers somehow start to look like friends.
And how do I know I have arrived here, to this most sacred of places? It is more than familiar people or an understanding of short cuts. It is at its very best an inner sigh of relief. A feeling of comfort, as if the air learned how to cradle the body. A feeling of ease, as if the atmosphere grew accustomed to my nerve endings and rhythm. Home allows our selves to relax deeply, to cozy up next to time. Most importantly, home makes us feel taken care of despite all the dark corners and distant sounds of this world. At its most essential core, home is the underlying whisper that sings “This is where you belong.”
