Home-Spun Soul

"Sometimes I wake a night
And watch the rain fall through the street lights 
'Cause you're standing still in my mind
Fading out, waving goodbye"
 - Summer Years, by Death Cab For Cutie



In Texas, homes have porches. Normally they are long, stretching the length of the house and positioned either on the first or second floor, if not both. They are the spots designated for eating watermelon and BBQ and ice cream, either sitting or swinging or rocking, depending on the type of seat.

In Ecuador, homes have terraces. They are concrete and often don't have any kind of roof. Going onto mine with a book, I opened a green-and-white umbrella and positioned my blue adirondack chair beneath it. That morning I was sweating as I weeded, trimmed, and swept up, but but afternoon a cool breeze blew across me. I was reading a book called "At Home In The World", a memoir about a family of five who spent a year abroad, traveling to various countries. The author is from Texas, and as she writes about being homesick even while not wanting their adventure to end, my eyes filled with tears. Not only does she describe my beloved Austin, but mentions a restaurant I've been to far too many times to count. I put the book down and gazed at the city surrounding me. A thin line of smoke rose from the side of Mount Pichincha. Three years ago, Quito experienced a summer so dry that it seemed every day I would scan the sky and see black smoke billowing from at least one direction. Four years ago, a series of earthquakes rocked the city. We had four in one week; people were frightened, alarmed, and as a precaution my roommate and I created a duffel bag full of emergency supplies. Both those summers, things were eventually okay. Rain came to put an end to the fires, and the ground stopped rolling with tremors. They were only a couple of many dangers in the place I'd chosen to live, yet still I stayed. Still I came to love it, and call it home. Yet what a strange term that can be: "home". Is it where I live and keep my belongings, or where my family resides? Where I'm from? Yes, to all, in equal yet different measure. Home.


I confess: I miss Texas breakfast tacos and open skies. I miss being able to see my family in person, to say, "Let's walk around SoCo, let's go to Kerby Lane, let's swim, let's sit on the porch of my parent's home and see if there are any fireflies tonight."

At the same time, I know I'll miss saying, "Let's go to downtown Quito, let's go to Casa Gabriel, let's buy fresh produce from the corner market and eat honeyed figs and cheese for dessert tonight."

It is all home. All the sights and smells and tastes, the streets and faces which become so familiar. Out on my terrace, with my roses and my Kindle full of books, I am satisfied, and not. I am happy here, yet am preparing my heart to once again call Texas "home". It will be a difficult transition. I know this just from experiencing reverse culture shock on the short visits back. (If I didn't know it, I would still have the words from everyone around me saying over and again: be prepared, it will be a tough transition.)

I came to the end of "At Home In The World" and read the epilogue. The author talked about settling back into life in the States and how they wrestled with where to live. They had been in Colorado for quite some time so it seemed natural to return, yet Texas - specifically Austin - where she has family, beckoned. She wrote about eventually buying a house in a small town outside of Austin, and my breath caught. There in black and white: the name of my hometown, Georgetown. They settled down in the same town I was born in, the town I lived in and went to church in for most of my adult life. Once again, my eyes were full of tears. How startling that a connection so seemingly random would move me so much. How beautiful that "home" is not only something given and born into, but chosen. January 8th will mark five years of calling Quito my home. After that, I'll be returning to Austin or Georgetown or another city nearby. Those places and this will always be home to me: treasured pieces carried in my heart.