Changling

I never much dreamed of settling down. Wings over roots was always my preference. I had a conversation with a student today as I waited for my car retrieval from valet. She was very pretty, a senior majoring in both English and Spanish. When I asked her what she wanted to be she said an arty conscious warrior mom. I liked her immediately. She said she was debating between applying to graduate school or buying a plane ticket and just traveling for a year, living abroad in some Spanish speaking country. I encouraged her to go. I told her graduate school would always be there and it would be all the better with a few years of life experience. I told her the world was dying to be explored and now was the time she had to be selfish, young, wild, and free. She could do anything she wanted to do, so buy the ticket. Follow your heart and trust yourself. I hope she listens.  I hope she goes.

And just as I told her to follow her heart, I’m noticing what my own is communicating to me. I’m craving roots. Five years ago all I wanted was to see the world. And though there are still many adventures to take, and I will take them, it has become of equal importance to me to love where I come home to. I have always know San Diego was not my forever place. What I didn’t know was that Atlanta would be. I’ve begun to picture my home. And…it doesn’t scare me to consider that this home I would have would just be mine. No roommates. No partner. Just me. 

  It’s exciting to picture my living room with my soft sectional and large chairs perfect for curling up. Peonies and fashion on my coffee table. Vintage art and magazine covers mixed with photographs of friends and family. An office where I keep oil pastels, charcoal, my laptop in a chair with a blanket and a bookcase with only the books I simply cannot live without. Kate Spade quotes and diplomas framed. A bedroom with my California king bed, the one thing SoCal I will never shake. My hand carved Chilean rosary hanging above and a shelf of pictures, and trinkets to jog my memory should I ever forget. A guest room for when my sisters spend the night. Oh and my favorite thing, a kitchen where I will cook beautiful meals for people I love. There I will pour the wine, season the chicken, chop the vegetables, steep the tea, soothe the soul and double the laughter. It will be the heart of my home. 

Mine. 

And if it never comes to pass that I share the place I call home, I want to be okay with that. I am not building it “so they come”. He comes. I am building it for myself because I am here and I’m ready for something that’s mine. 

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