I've been living on my own for the last 7 months now. 7 freakin months are lots of day, 210 days to be exact, living apart from my family. It should feel like a very long time. Some nights it does. Some others, it feels like blinking in slow motion: you still get flashes of images before you close your eyelid and open it to a changing of season.
The most frequently asked question is, aren't you homesick? In all honesty, no, I'm not. A moment after that, I realize I have my own definition of home, which resides in the existance of people that are dear to me. I don't miss the city, or an address with a zip code. I do miss my brother and sister, my friends, my cats. I miss moments when we hang out, talking about almost everything. I miss sitting in circle during dinner enjoying food my sister cooked. Or after office hour movie with friends once a month. Or Sunday coffee run when we sit through brunch and afternoon tea.
A home is not a place. It's people who are dear to me. Having them around give me such a security and stability, my little own solar system. We rotate side by side, keeping each other on track. Where I am living right now is such a wonderful place. I meet amazing people. But my people root way back in my life, they carve their meaning to my heart. It's easy to find myself feel lonely without them. Sometimes I just want to retreat and go back to the comfort of home. Yet I know what I'm doing now is needed.
