Wednesday, 08 August 2012 15:12
A friend of mine lives a beautiful life. She’s full of love, generous in spirit, and constantly bubbling with creativity. She fell in love — again — and now follows the currents of her heart between North America, Europe and Africa. She has a residence on each of those three continents but at times feels she has no home.
Another woman I know moved to Portland from Iran. She was horrified when her husband wanted to buy a mid-century ranch house. The place had good bones. The location was great. The size suited their young family. I couldn’t understand her reluctance to move into what she referred to as “the used” house. The reason, she shyly confessed, was that she believed spirits of the previous owners lingered in the corners.
I lived in one house during my first 18 years of life and spent most of them dreaming of living elsewhere. It was a fine house but I’d seen my third-grade teacher’s slides of magnificent palaces in France, humble abodes in Peru, and the final homes of pharaohs in Egypt, and I knew I wanted to wander those faraway places with the vague idea that it would make me a different person. And I was all for being a different person.