I'm in Chicago again.
Life continues to be strange these days. Life continues to smack of impermanence, each day leading into another transition, the great ebb and flow of change.
Flying into O'Hare yesterday I said to myself in my head, I'm home. Just kind of trying it out. It's not really my home yet. But Los Angeles is beginning to feel less and less like home to me.
So if Chicago's not my home yet and Los Angeles is no longer my home, where does that leave me?
It leaves me back to trying to stay present. A place I wish I had never left but one that's easy to get lost from.
It leaves me finding home to be wherever I am at any given moment. Home becomes my back right now, sticky against a wooden chair in an apartment in Lakeview. Home becomes my solitary walks through this new big city, a hundred things I've never seen before on every block. Home is the view out an airplane window of the snowcapped Rocky Mountains. Home is my deck in my little apartment in Venice that I will soon leave. Home is someone else's pillow under my head, different but no less comfortable than my own.
So much of my life right now hinges on the future. I'm still waiting to hear about my book. I'm waiting to hear back about jobs I'm applying for here in Chicago. I'm waiting to get out of the lease on my car, to start packing up my apartment in Los Angeles. I'm waiting to have that last dinner or drink with this friend or that one. I'm waiting to drive my rental truck into Chicago and unpack my things into my new aparmtment. I'm waiting to say I'm home, and mean it.
But for now home is simply the hot, humid breeze through the window, the view of a street corner that's becoming more and more familiar.