Recently I've been thinking a lot about "home".
For years, I clung to the minimalism fad as a way to become nimble and ready to jump at any opportunity. Abundant potential energy. Few possessions or ties to hold one down.
Then, when I experimented with its extreme and sold all my belongings to move into a campervan, I realized how damn lovely it is to have a proper home. So now I find myself where I am today, again occupying an apartment filled with all my things.
But this time, I've managed to retain a sense of appreciation and gratitude for it. My refuge. My sanctuary. The one place on Earth where I can peacefully practice my own anarchy.
The minimalist ideal still rears its head in my life now and again. This August, after months of relentless Florida heat, the idea of living in a van to escape was intoxicating. So I took a long, beautiful trip up north. But I found that, in spite of my new comfort of a hospitable climate, it couldn't compare to the profound sense of home I had built around me back in Florida.
As I've grown older, I've noticed the slow transition in my values from freedom toward security. It has not been without struggle: My initial brush with this truth was riddled with self-denial, hoping to retain my youthful ambition. But there's no denying my priorities have shifted. And most of them, for the better.