As I approach New Orleans, some of my friends have been mentioning how amazing it is that I’m almost “home.” The word sounds strange to me. As a camper and traveler, I’m always home, safe, cozy, and comforted.
Yes, I do leave my various campgrounds for walks and visits and groceries and sightseeing, but I’m basically always home.
My home is just like your home. I have walls and a ceiling and a floor and windows on 3 sides and a bed and cabinets and drawers and a refrigerator and heat and air conditioning and an essential oil diffuser and too many shoes and of course an air fryer. I rest and do my work and meditate and write in my journal and watch YouTube videos and Netflix.
But my home is tiny and I can move it according to the seasons (to avoid fire season, to avoid snow and wind and mosquito and blazing heat season) and my desires (people I want to hang out with, places I want to see).
So while I am approaching the area of my last permanent abode and a place where loved ones live, that’s not my home.
I’m in my home now, typing this missive at the KOA near Lafayette, Louisiana. And I’ll be moving my home to my friend’s house today, and in about a week to a state campground.
I always was a homebody. And I guess I still am.