Life in Laos through the lens of a diplomatic wife raising twin toddlers.
It’s no surprise that a return to our home in Denver prior to moving to Laos for 2 years would stir up some deep emotions and thoughts about that place we all call “home”.
In our parting and distance from home is when we find it’s meaning.
For me, home is not Thailand where I was born or New Jersey where I grew up and where my mother and brother and sister live. It’s not New York City or Singapore where I’ve spent the most number of consecutive years, or the place where I have the most friends among those who live in 20+ various countries.
I “built” my home late in life, in my late-30’s, after marriage, after two international moves with my new husband, after intense personal trauma overseas that forced us to realize we needed to own a roof over our heads whether we will always be under it or not.
So we decided to make a home in a city that has roots of my husband’s birthplace, his childhood friends, and proximity to his family. The love he has for his hometown was an infectious and convincing starting point for me. Then the nature, wide open spaces, the beauty of the mountains did not take long to grow on me like an addiction always calling me back after being away for too long.
I’ve come to love our home more than anywhere I have ever lived before in my whole life. I can’t pin down the exact object of that intense love except to list all the things combined to make it so:
A house we instantaneously fell in love with
A neighborhood of old and new friends
Friends who welcome us back each and every time we return
Where we soothed our sad souls during tough times
Where we’ve celebrated so much joy
Where we brought our babies home from the hospital
Where family unite and friends gather
Where we dream about the future and create lasting memories
Where we decided to grow old together
Where our hearts lie no matter where we are