I’ve moved a fair bit over the years. Although I stopped counting a while ago, I’ve lived in about 30 different places. And that’s only if you count places where I’ve stayed at least three months. Anything less than that is just an extended visit.
So I’ve had a lot of experience with leaving a place. But I never really thought of it as leaving a home. I always though home was about people, relationships. The house was just the physical space you lived in while enjoying those relationships. And, even though relationships are more difficult to maintain when you move, the relationships themselves don’t end. You take them with you. So, although you leave a place, you don’t really leave a home. You take it with you.
That’s what I used to think. But I was wrong.
See that flower over there? The yellow one near the willow tree? My wife planted that flower. She cleared the space, prepared the soil, and planted the seed. As time passed, she watched its birth and nurtured its growth. She fought weeds and dodged bees. An entire history rests between those delicate petals: a narrative of rootedness, growth, sacrifice, and beauty. She planted that flower.
Looking around, I see our family planted everywhere.