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Appropriately enough, the first time I remember hearing Jon Foreman's song Southbound Train was while Depreena and I were on the overnight train from Chiang Mai to Bangkok.


Oh
I guess they'll say I've grown
I know more than I wanted to know
I've said more than I wanted to say

I'm headed home

Yeah, but I'm not so sure
That home is a place
You can still get to by train

So I'm looking out the window

And I'm drifting off to sleep
With my face pressed up against the pane
With the rhythm of my heart
And the ringing in my ears
It's the rhythm of the southbound train.


Coming back to China for what is, in all likelihood, my last year to live here, the lyrics feel even more true.  Beyond my favorite flippant answer of "wherever my phone charger is plugged in," I'm not sure how to answer when people ask where home is.


Western Pennsylvania.

Sichuan.

Bloomington.

My parents' house.

Geneva.

The Powells' house.

Chiang Mai.

Wheaton.



And that's just to start.  I've learned how to feel at home very quickly in new places (too quickly, some might say, when I'm comfortable letting myself into people's houses the second time I'm there!)


Home's not a place you can still get to by train.  Maybe because home's not a place, or because home's not a place, or because life is just complicated like that.  And while it's complicated, I'm also so grateful for all of the places that I get to call home. 


Comments

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