Waystations of a Transitional Alien

This post is part of Think Kit by SmallBox.
January 13, 2016 prompt: "Habitat: What creates a sense of home for you? Explore the space, artifacts, or people who shape your habitat. When do you feel the most at home?"

Waystations of a Transitional Alien
Great question for the Blog Challenge today...When I consider the question, “What creates a sense of home?”  I wonder if it is a comfortable dwelling place? Being surrounded by family  and friends? The inclusion in a community of like-minded folks with shared history, experiences, or beliefs?  Setting down roots in one location? Pride of home ownership—having  a place that is mine alone—to rest my weary head at the end of the day? Or a place for amassing “stuff” designed to simplify or enhance my life as I race to “keep up with the Jones’?”  All of those examples?  None of them?  A static  combination?  Or maybe, depending upon the circumstance, it's a more fluid combination?

As a Military Brat, although we traveled a lot, my growing up years were not really gypsy-like or nomadic, since we were told where to go, but it was, in the very least, a transitional life in that every 6 months to 2 years we would move. Mostly we were yo-yoed between the Panhandles of Texas and Florida, but a move is still a move. I still get antsy every couple of years. Now that I’m responsible for packing and moving however, I tend to make smaller changes to curb that urge. Every trip I take to visit Mama in Florida I tell friends, “I’m going ‘home.’” Yet every time I come back across the state line of Texas, I let out a whoop ‘cause I’m “home again.”  Can I have two homes? If not, where is my actual home? I recently had cause to ponder this…

Two summers ago I took an epic road trip with my 10-year old Chinese Crested, Bandit. It was an ambitious plan.  In a two week time-span we would: 

• Pick up the western half of Route 66 in Amarillo (my birth place), with a side trip to the Grand Canyon and an overnight at the pet-friendly Flamingo Casino in Las Vegas where I would see the Donny and Marie Show! (yeah, I’m an unrepentant dweeb—who still loves purple…and Donny).
• En route, I would finally stay in the WigWom Motel in Holbrook AZ. (They don’t have online reservations and I’d  missed out staying there on another trip).
• The day following the show we would rejoin The Mother Road with a planned side trip to Riverside CA  to visit a friend and see an art gallery.
• Finishing at the “sentimental” end of Route 66  (the Santa Monica Pier –the real end is an unimpressive street corner), we would switch to the scenic Coast Highway 1.
• Departing from the coast, near San Francisco, we would snap a selfie at the Golden Gate Bridge before crossing over and taking a side trip inland a few miles to Petaluma, where Bandit would enter—and lose—the Ugly Dog Contest (yes, we went expecting to lose—and as expected we did lose—because Bandit was the cutest dog there!).
• The contest would be followed by a side trip through the Chandelier Drive Thru Tree, on the way to visit my Aunt Margie in Oregon, with the hopes of returning to the coast—at least at the northern end of the state—to see the results of a primo sandcastle contest on Cannon Beach.
• If all went well, we would travel to Washington State  and maybe even have time for a daytrip or overnight trip into Canada (I found a pet friendly ferry and overnight  accommodations and made sure I had my passport and Bandits Health Certificate, just in case).
• On the way home to Texas we would stop in Colorado to visit friends and the dog friendly Manitou Cave Dwellings and their resident wolves—who are also pet friendly!—I checked.

Whew!!!  I told you it was an ambitious trip. That was the plan anyway.

At the Flamingo, I took a dive walking Bandit. As a result, I ended up sore and moving a lot slower than normal. Sitting in the SUV on long stretches of driving did not enhance this condition. In an attempt to lighten the situation, and distract me from the pain I was feeling, I requested Siri sing “Puppy Love” to me. He replied, “I’d rather not” in his droll British accent. I never liked Siri.

I arrived in California in pain and well  behind schedule. I skipped Riverside—missing the art gallery and my friend, whose schedule conflicted with my new arrival time, found a pet-friendly hotel in Ventura,  took some Tylenol for pain, and went to bed. I decided the breakneck speed I had planned was not the speed I wanted to go, so I started cutting back on the activities I had planned. When my Aunt offered her cabin at the lake for a couple of days R&R in Oregon,I took her up on it and curtailed my trip even more. We never made it any further north than Klamath Falls. My time at the lake was one of much needed relaxation and healing. Canada would have to wait until a future trip.

Later that same trip the steering on my SUV went out forcing me to hole up in a small western town waiting on parts and repairs, providing me with additional rest, relaxation, and plenty of time to consider, what makes home, home?  I came to the realization that, for me anyway, although I claim both Texas and Florida as home, I really don’t see either as home—they are merely Waystations on my Life Journey.

I also decided, when I retire in about 7 years, I’m selling everything, buying an RV, and going to spend retirement traveling like a nomad gypsy—albeit at a more relaxing speed than I travel at now. 

But that’s not the end of the story. The question of “what makes home, home?” doesn’t end with the physical, social, and emotional levels, because we humans are a complicated lot—we are much  more than our physical, social, and emotional dimensions. We also have a spiritual dimension. As a Christian I believe the Bible to be the Word of God. In it we are told,  we—the Believers and Followers of Jesus Christ—are aliens in this world. For the Believer, our citizenship is actually in Heaven.

There’s an old gospel song, “This World is Not My Home,”  that says it pretty well:

This World Is Not My Home
This world is not my home—I'm just a passing through
my treasures are laid up somewhere beyond the blue.
The angels beckon me from Heaven's open door
and I can't feel at home in this world anymore.

They're all expecting me, and that's one thing I know
my Savior pardoned me and now I onward go.
I know He'll take me through—though I am weak and poor
and I can't feel at home in this world anymore

Just up in Glory Land we'll live eternally
the Saints on every hand are shouting “Victory!”
Their song of sweetest praise drifts back from Heaven's shore
and I can't feel at home in this world anymore

Chorus:
“O Lord you know I have no friend like You
if Heaven's not my home, then Lord what will I do?”
The angels beckon me from Heaven's open door
and I can't feel at home in this world anymore.

I’ve always thought the gypsy life was a romantic life.  I’m not really cut out to be a gypsy because I do like the act of planning my trips, although I also love the ability to be spontaneous and veer from my plans. During my travels, I meet some extraordinary folks. We share many things in common, and we express vast differences. Even though I call Texas and Florida “home,”  they really are just my waystations. I look forward to my retirement when I become even more of a wanderer, in my transitional alien world—until I go to my real home—a home of true perfection.