The Long Road Home

There are many travels I have taken so far in life. You could liken it to the nomadic nature of the American spirit, always seeking adventure in going from place to place. Or perhaps it is something deeper, an inner yearning to go out into the world and find the essence of life in the many different locations and faces that there are to choose from on our planet.
You could also attribute my wanderlust to the deeply-ingrained idealism of being a pioneer and an explorer that was sunk into my bones while growing up about as far out west as you can get: Washington State. I have always imagined that the people who made it as far as the west coast back in the days of wagons and horses had a strong need in them to just keep going until they hit the ocean.

And my ancestors could not have chosen a more perfect place to stop their travels. Five generations ago they settled in the lush farming valleys of Eastern Washington, just at the edge of the Cascade Mountain range. In my grandmother’s time my family came over the mountains to Seattle, settling our roots in the shadow of the mighty Mt. Rainier.

My generation was raised in the state capitol, Olympia, a pristine small town at the tip of the Puget Sound, with a view of the Olympic Mountain range and Mt. Rainier. Over the years I have come to appreciate where I come from, both in the long-term view of the generations before me, and the short-term view of my own lifetime.

My travels have taken me away to live in and visit places like Los Angeles, San Francisco, Honolulu, Japan, Kentucky, Washington, D.C., New York, Nashville, Atlanta, Chicago, El Salvador, Boston, Tijuana, Florida, China, New York and more. Every adventure has had its points of interest, fascinating cultural and linguistic lessons, amazing encounters, incredible stories to save for the grandchildren, and just precious memories that I would never trade for all the riches on earth.

Despite these chances to see part of the world and experience what life is like as a member of a foreign community, there is always something lacking in these experiences. It is an almost tangible sense of home that haunts me from time to time when I am away, and doesn’t leave me until I see the mountains and evergreen trees of the Pacific Northwest again.

Traveling has made me realize that no matter where I go there is no substitute for home. It is the only place that I know as well as I know myself. Every street and neighborhood, every landmark that doesn’t exist anymore but locals still use to give directions by. Every festival and body of water, the many moods of the weather, the sound of the wind in the trees at night, the look of a full moon in summer, and the birds’ songs in the bright mornings.

Someday when I am far from home and wishing for that familiar feeling, that knowing sense of harmony with my surrounding environment, I will go back again to be with the ghosts of my ancestors and the possibilities of my future. Until then, it will have to be enough to close my eyes and like Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz, say, “There’s no place like home, there’s no place like home.”