where my thought's escaping, where my music's playing...

[Next?]

I tell myself after every move that it will be my last. I hate it. I wouldn't call myself a pack-rat (I throw away plenty), but every move brings with it a sentiment of the past. I find old pictures, awards, hobbies, and love letters. While the accumulation of these items has slowed down dramatically, they still tag along like an outdated friend from high school: you don't really want to hang out with them anymore, but it's not worth the drama to "break up," because you only endure it once every couple years.

What makes this move different is that I'm returning to my hometown. All of my old stuff is not just a reminder of an otherwise forgotten past, but also a link to adulthood. By coming home, I have discovered that none of my detours could replace this particular element of my identity.

I wonder if the longing for home is not another masculine check and balance; is it a passage of maturity? In the traditional view of the marriage covenant, a man finds a wife, and she is to leave her father's household to live with her husband. He stays put. I find this strange in some ways. Yes, man is expected to lead his wife, but traditionally speaking, the woman is more concerned with the stability and nurture of daily life than her husband.

Thus, we have both woman (resisting a change that could upset the delicate balance of family life) and man (taking risks that could often be described as ill-conceived) expected by God to respond contrary to their natural instincts -- in this ONE area.

And yet, grown men take pride in these homes! A boy is only interested in having a place to lay his head, should his many activities require the occasional rest. For a man, the activities are only assumed to support his home life.

I was thinking about this today as I bought groceries. I've added thirty minutes to my daily work commute by moving back to Bremen, and yet it's never been more clear that work is work and home is home. I enjoy my job, but never to the extent that I wouldn't rather be at my own place.

I chatted with a couple longtime grocery workers who were pleased to see me again. My cashier was genuinely upbeat and asked how my day was, without sounding cliche. My bagger offered to take my groceries out to my car, and I had forgotten that I had done the same as a student, hundreds of times before she was even born.

It's good to feel like a man. It's good to be home.