everywhere is sand

I am a self-professed lover of vocabulary. I spend hours in the thesaurus. My study of Spanish has enriched my appreciation and inspired even keener interest in language and its meanings. I delight in a double entendre, the undercurrents of emotion, sharp wit, the vastness of tone, incisive sarcasm ... I could go on and on.

Lately - as I have been "without country" - I have been pondering the meaning of home. I am in the rare position of having no ties and no responsibilities beyond family. I used to feel like Eliza and could make myself at home if I had all my things about me. Now, nowhere feels like home and I am ready to put down roots but without any solid ground. So I sit while my self-concocted delay passes on and wish that I was building some sort of life for myself.

Unable to do so, I content myself to strengthen and improve my soul, my abilities, my mind, my psyche, my understanding, my heart. But I want to move on and start my life again. I feel as though I'm on pause when all I want to do is fast forward. In moments of clarity, which are ever-increasing, I remember the journey is just as important as the destination. So I cling to the hope that someday I will again be comfortable enough to feel at home somewhere.