Coming Home

The small piece of turquoise embedded in the table is a distinct comfort.

I’m at Stowaway Kitchen, perhaps the only place in Denver I frequent in these days. Sitting at my favorite corner table by the window feels like home.

What is home?

Home is a chameleon that holds a sense of returning, of being welcomed and embraced.

We come home to people we’ve known for decades and ones we’ve just met.

At the core of home, whether it is found in a place, a person, or thing, is a feeling, an inner knowing; something familiar that embraces us.

For someone like me, who was born on a military base and moved every three years growing up, home is not connected to one physical place.

I come home every time I sit at this table at Stowaway, see the owners Amy and Hayden behind the coffee bar or the stove, or eat a delicious bite of anything from their kitchen.

I come home every time I hear a river moving somewhere hidden in the trees, and I come home again when I dip my hand in the water and feel its movement wrap around my skin.

When I’m in any kind of forest, I find myself in rooms I know, even if I’ve never stepped foot in them before. I come home every time I hug someone I care about. I come home when I eat my mom’s tokboki or kimchi jige, Korean flavors that hug me with their familiar spice.

I come home when my dad makes me a cup of coffee, which is made with instant coffee and a bit of cream and sugar. As a person who’s worked in specialty coffee, you’d think I’d find this methodology of coffee preparation an abomination to this lineage of beverage, but this is how my dad has always made coffee since I was old enough to drink it, and the taste is uniquely its own instant coming home.

The more I slow down and live from a present place, I tend to come home more often. Has home always been there? Am I simply paying attention more now and noticing what was once hidden in plain sight?

Perhaps I’m finding something ever held within my soul’s reach.

Perhaps every moment holds the invitation of coming home as I return to myself over and over again, to a home where hidden rivers run deep and my favorite corner table is always waiting.