Home is Where My Rump Rests

I have moved 13 times in the past 4 years. I am a gypsy. And until this most recent move to England, I've usually moved in boxes and trash bags. So when I counted the amount of times I have relocated all my crap over the past few years to my current housemates they stood astounded at my absurdly high number.

"So what did you learn from all that moving?" one asked. "I think I'd feel like I really knew what it meant to have a home."

But I think my response was something unexpected. "Nope. What I've learned from moving every time is that 'home' is where your rump rests."

And I stand by it.

Home is a figurative idea of comfort. And to be honest, comfort is fake. Every time I start living somewhere that I feel is comfortable, shit hits the fan and things go nuts. And every time I'm somewhere that I feel like every day is new or different or crazy or adventurous, life seems to run more smoothly. Maybe when I feel like life is an adventure I give more grace to the people around me, or the situations I'm in. When I know what to expect I have a standard, I have rules.

Living in England I ditch most of my rules. They simply don't apply here. Just like the rules don't apply anywhere outside the US... and to be honest, my rules might not apply anywhere outside Gilbert, Arizona.