Where The Heart Is

I lived in a cave. Carved out in Minoan times, it was one of many set into a stone embankment, edging a secluded, aqua, horseshoe bay. One could literally walk outside and jump into the Mediterranean (if one didn't mind a rough-edged two-story drop). Mine was a penthouse -- two spacious chambers, deep sleeping ledges. The original tenants had been entombed there, but all the cave-tombs had been emptied, ages before my arrival. Neighboring caves housed a diverse mix of waysided travelers, and at that time, no one seemed to care that we sojourned in this ancient place. A quite basic lifestyle, yet rather luxurious as encampments go: a well nearby, the sea for bathing, mild to hot climate, and a tiny fishing village a stone's throw away. Had it not been for visa requirements, would I ever have left?

I lived on a kibbutz. As itinerant labor, not a member, but I had my place and lived by community rules. We all wore issued clothing, worked shifts on rotating assignments, ate in the dining hall. Members stayed aloof; casual camaraderie united the outsiders, our long days shored up by evenings spent in curious company. My spartan room had just a cot, but it opened out onto an overgrown garden where peacocks roamed. A white owl visited my open windowsill.

I lived in a log house. Log cabins had been a childhood dream, but this was a two-story house; two rooms downstairs, four above, and a dug-out root cellar below. The logs had been squared and mortared, with the corners neatly joined, in the style of its day -- early twentieth century. Two iron stoves heated it (winters were seriously cold) which required huge stacks of firewood, piled in an adjoining lean-to. No electricity or plumbing: A clear-water well was just downhill; an outhouse, just
far enough away in the opposite direction. Daily life there was chore-filled and demanding. Beautiful, serene; ultimately unsustainable

I lived in a rooming house. An old frame Victorian, it housed five unrelated, previously unacquainted renters -- one of whom lived in the attic -- and we all shared one bathroom, plus a central commode in a closet. Whoever owned the place lived elsewhere. My room was downstairs and had a lovely, drafty little fireplace, as well as a sort of kitchen, built into another former closet. The house wiring was ancient, we all had hotplates, the couple above me smoked and drank continuously, and I burned driftwood in that fireplace without a screen. Onetime, I locked myself out and climbed in through the kitchen window -- easy. Anyone could have done it.

I lived in my truck. Never considered myself homeless, just mobile, in my little wooden home, built on the back of an old Chevy -- basic shelter, not fitted out as a proper camper. It was nonetheless cozy, and enabled me to tour around, searching for the next place to sojourn for a spell. Would not have worked near so well without the kindness of strangers, their kitchens and facilities.

I lived in a garage. Actually, a garage under construction -- slab floor, four walls, a few windows, a roof. No door, just a plywood covering. Uninsulated, heated via wood stove (and lots of chopping). No electricity or plumbing either; paid the neighbors for not-so-convenient facilities access. But it was free, and (at first) I imagined it had possibilities, plus being on such a private, wooded lot. A tough place to work from though. Would it ever be completed?  Not during my tenure.

I lived with friends. Paid my share, but remained adjunct. Of all the places I've made into homes, this arrangement never felt homelike, despite being invited and welcome.

I lived in a tepee. Well, my beloved did, when we first met. So we spent much of our first summer together in that shelter he called home. Perched on a hillside overlooking a rural residential valley, it
contrasted with our mundane daily activities -- his in an office, mine as a student. Access ran through a field where a young, lonely bull awaited. An owl sometimes sat on the poles, night-hunting. When fall turned too chilly, we folded it up. And that was that.