Home

Home…something I am thinking a lot about right now.

Happy Thanksgiving, by the way, to all you who celebrate Thanksgiving.

Last week I was at my local health food store digging for non-crushed dates at the bottom of the barrel; it was literally the bottom of the barrel. Guess there had been a run on dates early that morning?

As I eyed each date, I heard a familiar voice, not familiar like, oh that’s my best friend Joe, but more like, I know that accent. Let’s just say, I am a big Henry Higgins-ish when it comes to accents…so before I raised my head, I said to myself… Southern California, Camp Pendleton, Marine.

Boom…nearly perfect record! To my right stood a Semper Fi-tattoo bearing muscular man, with that sort of half-shaved haircut only Marines have. Ya, I’ve been here six months, he said to the man behind him in line, and don’t get me wrong, I love it, but it’s time to go home. I miss country music.

It’s funny the things that we miss. The things that make us feel at home.

I also missed country music.

Which is why it was so bizarre (you can’t make this stuff up!) when just the day before I had come home to our new apartment just as the Russian-Israeli painter was finishing up and what did I hear blasting from the kitchen? Country music. The Chicks’ song March March. And I had teared up, remembering Grandma Lil playing her banjo in the big kitchen in Ramona and Aunt Dana and Uncle Mickey harmonizing to Hank Williams.

Something about it had initially felt disconnected, and yet—not. I speak Russian, live in Israel, grew up surrounded by country music. Country music is in my blood. But so is Dostoevsky. And yoga. And Rachmaninov. And being alone and being with family. And believing and not believing. And prayer and questioning. And Israel.

I’m kind of all those things. Aren’t we all—a collection?

For so long, I thought home meant buying into a mindset or ethos, taking on the costume (internal and external) of the group. But, that never worked for me. I’ve always been a bit of an outsider—by choice—a contrarian. There was always something I couldn’t accept. I have always wanted to belong, but the group scared me.

Maybe home is less an external ethos or geographical location, and rather an internal space we carve out for ourselves. A place where we welcome in all parts of ourselves—our Hank William and Tolstoy our little girl princess our big girl scientist our confusion and grief and our boundless joy.

Perhaps home is about belonging to ourselves. Perhaps, as the Chicks sing in March March, we all walk to the beat of our own drummer:

March, march to my own drum
March, march to my own drum
Hey, hey, I’m an army of one
Oh, I’m an army of one.