I’ve been thinking a lot lately about “home” … what it means, where it is and how we define it.

This coming from the girl who calls four places “home”. It confuses me, too. You’re not alone.

Paris is home to me. Cinci is home, because it’s where I’m at right now. Yet D.C. will always be home home, because it’s my beginning and middle. And then there’s my islands. I haven’t been to the warm Caribbean waters lately, but I also think of home as the British Virgin Islands.

My summers of sailing sealed the deal on that. The BVI’s were my first time of being physically moved to tears by such beautiful sights. Where it literally hurt to look at those sunsets and crystal clear water. It was magic. What isn’t magical about dropping anchor and swimming ashore to uninhabited islands?

To me, home can’t be just one place. Home is where our souls feel that familiarity, those places that connect us to something greater. I think we all have these places that speak to our hearts.

Maybe it’s somewhere we’ve spent an hour, or decades. I think the length of time is irrelevant — It’s the way we are moved by the places we experience that make a home, a home.

I’ve never really considered “the world” as home … till I saw this sign the other day with Maman. And I thought, yes! That is it! The whole world is our home! We are here together!

So I think now I’m going to start saying, the world, in reference to “home”. That makes it a lot easier then having to explain four homes. And risk exposing my true weirdness so early on.

Plus. It makes sense to me. I get it. If we’re all in this together, which we are, and this thing isn’t random — which it’s not — then this whole wide big world is all ours. All home.

I’m beginning to see the only lines of separation — and home — come from inside of us.