1. the place where one lives permanently.
2. a place where something flourishes.
We’re somewhere in southern Nevada when I pull over.
We haven’t been on the road long today. We're carving our way back east from California, and we're on a strict schedule. It's too soon for a snack stop. But the icy blue summons me. Blue shadows. Blue sky. Blue lens on the world.
As we step from the gray sedan, stillness drapes over me. A soft cape.
Life feels... simple.
I store this moment away, in the categorical way I used to document my summers in grade school: We're two people. In love. We don't know where we're going. But right now, we're holding hands at the edge of a quiet blue lake on a sunny cold day in November.
Because I know that as soon as we get back on 95 South, I’ll be thinking instead of how clarity has evaded me this year; how in place of simple landscapes I’m dizzy with crossroads in every direction.
When my hands are on the wheel again, I know my mind will be a cyclone of next steps. Whys. Whats. How we will ever make the decision of where to live next. We've set our bar high: we don't want just a place to live; we want to flourish.
I didn’t know yet. I let myself abandon the impractical task of predicting my future for a moment, so I could breathe the generous air by a southwestern lake. I didn't know then that we wouldn't find our answer in all our wide-swept searching.
Instead, clear as that November day, our answer -- our home -- would soon choose us.