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  • For so much of my life, I've tried to find a place where I could be rooted, a physical home that would replace the one I'd lost in childhood. In my 50s, I finally bought my first house, hung curtains, created shrines, made it a nest, an extension of my personality, a harbor. And it sort of worked. But lately I feel I've missed out on something more mysterious by clinging to safe shorelines. I've begun to regret not knowing the lonely feeling that comes with being a nomad in the world. I wish I had been brave enough to wander. To go on pilgrimage. To step off of the marked path. To wake up in a foreign city and be my own anchor. To be a stranger and become known to myself.
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