Home

Home is a weird thing. It's more a feeling than a place. For a long time Rockford was home for me. I considered Rockford home through my first three years of college. My last year of college I really loved my apartment. I lived with Bob my best friend and roommate of all four years. We had a great set up and we were perfect roommates. Agreeing on mostly everything, never fighting, sharing everything, and always keeping the place clean. I remember the first time I referred to that apartment and Normal as home to my dad my senior year. It felt like my place. It felt safe. I felt the most myself when I was there.

After graduation I moved to Chicago and lived there for two years. That whole time I still considered Rockford home. In retrospect I think I always had one foot in and one foot out of Chicago. I had a self-defeatist attitude about it. I was put off by the lack of nature, the crowds, the impersonal vibe of a big city. I bottomed out of Chicago, I gave up, and moved back to Rockford with my folks.

I lived back in Rockford with my folks for two years. It felt like home. But I also felt like I was in arrested development. My life felt like it was on hold, in limbo, stagnant. I set up my room the way I wanted and surrounded myself with all my books which was comforting but its not as if I had anyone over or brought anyone back to hang out in my childhood home. I didn't make a life for myself in Rockford. The two years I spent in Rockford I was constantly commuting to Chicago to do improv and to see my friends. I made no attempt to make friends or make a life for myself in Rockford. Part of me knew I think that I wouldn't stay, couldn't stay, it wasn't big enough for me anymore. It was safe and maybe at that time that's what I needed. But safety can lead to laziness. To complacency.

I moved back to Chicago and have been here for two years. I stayed in the same apartment until this last July and it never felt like home. I still referred to Rockford as home. I didn't like my neighborhood and I don't think I really liked my apartment. I was satisfied with it, I liked the convenience of it, but I didn't like it. I didn't feel like me. Or rather I felt I was still in transition. I was never comfortable. I think my old place had some bad juju associated with it.

My new apartment I love. I have a studio, live alone, and cook a lot. I keep the place clean and I'm sitting on my balcony now writing this. I couldn't be more content. I feel home. I feel like myself. Satisfied. Whole. I've had an on-again off-again relationship with Chicago for six years. I consider myself a Chicagoan. A couple weeks ago I visited my dad in Rockford. I kept referring to home meaning Chicago without thinking. The house in Rockford feels different. Not bad, just not the same. Which is good I think. Some people I think home is an easy thing to change. Some people get it faster than others. Some people grow up faster than others. I'm not one of those people.

Home is where the heart is. Home is where you feel the most yourself. The most comfortable. The most relaxed. Home has your books and your cloths and your knick-knacks and your art work and all the other little thing that make you you. All the stuff that have been with you for a while that you put thought and love into. It's nice to have a home. You need one. You need to be grounded.

I feel home for the first time in a long time.