The last few years, I have had a very fluid definition of “home.” At first I struggled with it; on which residence would I bestow such an important title?  

My home, where I grew up, in Idaho and where I spent increasingly shorter spans of summer break? 
My home in Salt Lake City, where I lived for a majority of the year, in my own apartment and where my friends lived?
One of my other short term residences? 
Did home depend on where certain people were or where I was? In Idaho, in Salt Lake, in Italy, in Chicago…? 
At some point, I simply accepted that home was no singular place. When I left Utah for Christmas, I said I was going home. When I went back to school after summer with my family, I said I was going home. I was at home in Idaho with my family and at home in school in Salt Lake. When I spent 6 short weeks in Chicago, it was in the crappy long term stay DeWitt Hotel between Lake Shore Drive and Michigan Avenue. When I spent a semester in Italy, it was at Via Guelfa 38, two blocks away from the Academia and around the corner from Brunelleschi’s Dome. 
 
And right now, it is on Meritullinkatu, a street that means Sea Customs, because of its adjacency to the Baltic. It is a little apartment with tall ceilings and boots in the entry way and our coats in the closet. 
I am writing this post because today I recognized how much I like coming back here after a weekend away. We have been out of town the last two weekends, and will be gone for the next two. How incredibly blessed we are to have such wonderful adventures! But we are even more blessed to have a place to which we like to return, where we can sit in silence on the couch in our sweat pants, watch mindless shows and eat left overs. 

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