This weekend is our last one in the USofA this season. After three+ months, we are going home. But here’s the thing: After three months or so, year after year, I am already *at* home.
At home with differences in English spelling: color, not colour; center, not centre. At home with differences in English usage: soda, not pop; sack, not bag; napkin, not serviette. At home with the occasional cunning required to hunt down tasty bread, as well as with the everyday access to properly fried foods. At home with wonderful service in restaurants and stores, and with friendly interactions with strangers. At home with seeing mystery plants in passing on the highway: What *is* that thing that from a distance looks like a lilac, but is not?
I am at home with feeling at home in a place that is not my home.
Decades ago, someone told me that the challenge of thinking was to hold opposing ideas in a creative tension: in effect, to sit with opposing ideas without trying to argue one away, to see what might come of that. I would now add: “and to sit with opposing feelings without trying to suppress one, to see what might come of that.”
And so this weekend–Easter weekend, by chance–I look at the week ahead and feel both regret and anticipation. I am at home, and I am going home.