A Sense of Place

There is a sense of rest, of pleasure in the company of others. I’ve been many places, from foreign countries to week-long summer camps to the more familiar comfort of a friend’s home, surrounded by people I love.

None of them was home.

I remember the first time I knew that home was a place, not people for me quite keenly.

I spent a week several states away from home. We did important volunteer work and there was plenty of close bonding between participants. I felt safe and happy.

The moment I stepped off the plane on SFO, I drew in a great gasp of air. A shudder went through my body. I was home. I hadn’t realized how starved I was for place, for that perfect balance of temperature, humidity, character, scent, and texture that marked the spot I would return to again and again. I experienced a similar sense of home returning from trips over the years. When I left for college, I found that I slowly grew hungrier to return permanently to my home in the Bay Area. Though it meant moving away from friends and community and a great town, I eventually had to leave Olympia to move back home. The relief was immense.

Here, where I can get to the ocean, where fog rolls in, where the land browns in summer, where the hills roll, here is home.

How do you know you’re home?


About Melissa ra Karit

I'm a queer, poly, genderqueer Witch. I'm a sex-positive feminist, an activist, and a writer. I believe that when we attend to our individual good, we approach the world with good in our hearts and change the world for the better. Opinions expressed here are solely my personal opinions, and do not represent the views of any organization with which I am affiliated.
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