On My Way
It was a lonely Christmas. As I sat alone in a dark room, gazing at the heavy snow falling outside the window, the future felt dark and empty. I was far from my parents’ house - away from the comfort of a warm bed, the delight of free fruits and vegetables in the refrigerator, and the cozy vibe of my bedroom. In a heartbeat, I drove back to my parents’ house. But as I stepped through the entryway, the truth hit me harder than a professional boxer getting KO’d. Even though I was safe and protected under their roof, the feeling of being home still felt far away.
A few seasons passed, and I eventually moved into a pleasant apartment closer to work. Rent was high, and I worked multiple jobs to keep life going. In the spare time I had, I cooked, cleaned, watched movies, and enjoyed the view in solitude. Still, in that space, the feeling of home was only temporary.
Living in Minnesota, the change in seasons makes life feel like you’re driving a time machine down a speedy highway.
When the first snowflake hits the ground, a gardener packs up his tools. When flower pollen fills the air, retail stores hang colorful swimsuits on display. When summer arrives, snowbirds return to their nests. And when the air turns crisp and the leaves turn red and brown, children find ladybugs crawling across playground slides.
As the driver of my time machine, it’s hard to pinpoint a place in time - or space - where I truly felt at home.
I used to have another blog, and one of my posts there was titled The Raven. I’ve reposted it here because, in this lifetime, I’m lucky enough to have met my raven. Right now, the winter air is still chilly, and spring only offers teasing glimpses. I’m wearing a comfortable black American Red Cross sweater and blue camo shorts, my backpack slung over one shoulder. I walk into the usual Caribou Coffee shop next to my mom’s small business. Countless days, I’ve sat in that corner table - writing, studying, and working toward a goal. I’ve never traveled the world, nor have I met enough people to consider myself truly cultured or well-educated. Yet here I am - existing in my inner world while surviving the real one. As I continue traveling in my time machine, the search for a place to call home is finally beginning to show some promise.
In movies and books, the main character is often surrounded by friends, guided by mentors, and driven by a meaningful cause. But real life isn’t a perfect story—mistakes can’t always be redeemed, and actions can't be undone. According to Albert Einstein and the laws of physics, time travel to the past remains highly improbable, if not impossible, due to the paradoxes it could create. Still, if I were ever given the chance to go back, I would return to the moments I spent talking with my raven—again and again.
I used to work in sales, and during a training session, one of the managers shared something that stayed with me: the mind, heart, and body must work in harmony to sustain a meaningful life. But sometimes, the mind battles with the heart, and the body simply can’t keep up with the intricate dreams the mind dares to design. There’s a saying that home is where the heart is—and in my case, I’m truly unlucky, because my raven belongs to the past. My present and future can no longer hold the same joy that once lit up my world whenever my raven was near.
Still, even with the heartache of loss and the silence that follows, I move forward. My time machine has no rearview mirror—only a foggy windshield pointing toward the unknown. Though I cannot relive those moments talking with my raven, I carry the echoes of our conversations with me like old songs replaying softly in my memory. In them, I find a sense of grounding, a brief touch of home.
There are days when the world feels cold and unfamiliar, like a house without laughter or a winter without warmth. And yet, I’ve come to learn that maybe home isn’t just a place or a person. Maybe it’s a feeling—a fleeting moment of peace in the middle of a chaotic day, the smell of a familiar meal, or the comfort of writing in the corner of a coffee shop. Maybe home is the quiet realization that, even in solitude, I am still becoming someone worthwhile.
The seasons will continue to change. Time won’t stop. The snow will fall again next Christmas, and I may still find myself searching. But I’ve also grown stronger, more accepting of this unpredictable journey. Life may not offer do-overs, but it does offer new chances—new conversations, new places, new versions of myself. I no longer cling to the hope that my raven will return. Instead, I carry it gently, like a lantern guiding me through the darker paths.
Now, as I continue writing, working, and existing in this blend of outer survival and inner dreaming, I understand that the search for home may never fully end. But the journey itself—the people I meet, the lessons I gather, the love I give and receive—those are fragments of home I’ll collect along the way. And perhaps, when enough fragments come together, I’ll finally arrive—not in a destination, but in a feeling that whispers, you are exactly where you need to be.
