More Thoughts on Home

I’ve been in this state for 6 months and I couldn’t tell you my home address if my life depended on it.  Fortunately the row I'm in is color coded.  3rd red rectangle on the right -  I think.   I’ve had homes in both Brighton and Bridgeton, CA and CO, and more street names than I can remember.

This sometimes causes a muddled family narrative.   I'm starting to realize my real job with the camera is to order our strands while weaving others together. To name where we are from and where we are going, the best that I know how.

We were at Garden of the Gods earlier this week and I tried to my hardest to pull the strands.  "This brush reminds me of Californian Manzanita.  You hear the pigeons echo against the rocks?  Just like in that Midwest cave.  Doesn't this feel like climbing an Oregon sea-stack?  The mountains, definitely new,  definitely Colorado.  Let's stay in this crevice and pretend we're at the beach. You say you lived near Pike's Peak once?  Did you really chop down a tree?"

And so it goes.  Home.  It's not a number on a street.  It's recognizing the dirt under our nails,  the wind that carries us,  that feeling we know, the people we love, and the constant movement forward.

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