Despite the (somewhat) lengthy time away, I'm still at odds internally; a part of me wishes to be out in the world and to see more, and another part of me loves the comfort of my own bed, my shower, and my dog.
On my way home, I volunteered to bring over two rescue dogs, Momo and Yanny. I won't say the process made the stressful and long journey home any easier, but it was fulfilling to bring two happy, healthy dogs into their new home.
It made me think about the idea of home; for me, it was the place I was born, grew up in, and spent most of my life in, because for me, it has always been the same place. But for others, home might have different meanings. Home might be constantly changing, home could be hard to find, home could be a destination in the near-future. What makes a home? Your birthplace, the town that shaped your life growing up, or the city you chose for your future?
The question always had a simple answer for me. I always wished to complicate it, but I've discovered uprooting is a lot more difficult in reality, and the sacrifices are something I have yet to accept. I don't know if I would have preferred to be like one of the rescue dogs, with someone deciding my fate for me.
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