Home

Someone asked me this week if Anchorage feels like home. My response was "I don't know where home is anymore." But on further reflection I think that gut reaction was inaccurate and slightly unfair. True, I've felt at home in many places in my life, most recently rural Honduras and before that, Southern California. In that way, I feel I have an abundance of home, "home-full" as a wise woman phrased it. I also feel like I could make myself a home almost anywhere (and very likely will at some point again in the future). 

That way of viewing it, though, underestimates my guttural connection with the Pacific Northwest, and particularly Alaska. My parents are kindly letting me store the majority of my possessions at their house  and keep a bedroom available to me at all times. I am writing their address on every form that asks for my address. That is home. And more broadly, Alaska (including Anchorage, no matter what Alaskans may tell you) feels like home. I feel like I can relax into my own skin here. People are dressed like I dress, topics of conversation are familiar, and choice of recreation is what I remember from growing up.

I didn't realize how out of place I felt in other places until I returned to Alaska. This is home.