I walk along the tiny dirt road, crunching snow and ice beneath the wheels of the double stroller
I am pushing, containing the two tiny rosy-cheeked humans who call me Mommy. Majestic pine
trees rise around the ice-covered pond in front of me, cradling tufts of snow on the end of each
deep green branch. Deep coral clouds drift above a rose-tinted snow-capped Pikes Peak, and
my breath forms little cloudy puffs as I approach the warm light spilling out of the windows of the
little A-frame cabin I call my own.
This is my home. My place. My soul soars among the peaks of these frozen mountains, and
breaths deeply of the pine-saturated air.
I hike along the winding trail between tall, scratchy grasses and wipe hopelessly at the streams
of sweat making their way down my neck. The tropical sun beats down on my straw hat-covered
head and I gulp tepid water from the bottle clipped to the backpack my son rides in on my
husband's back. We pause on the trail, and look out over gardens carved into the jungle of the
interior of Papua New Guinea. Giant tropical flowers bedecked in garish color emerge from the
kaleidoscope of greens that is this rugged island just off the equator. I pick up my tired feet and
turn toward the little windowed cottage I call my own.
This is my home. My place. My soul basks in the searing sun and breaths deeply of the air
colored by a thousand cook-fires.
I stroll along the tiny beach, sinking my toes deep into the warm sand, splashing in the sparkling
Pacific. Hot, humid air is interspersed with cool sea breezes that wrap around me like a
comforting blanket. Childhood memories from this rich South Pacific culture ebb and flow like
the breakers forming a soothing background noise that people pay money for recordings of. I
know from experience that tropical fish dart in rainbows through the coral-encrusted canyons
just off the shore. Palm trees rustle overhead, competing in soothing power with the crash of the
breakers. I cross the stretch of grass toward my parents' tiny house here in the country of most
of my childhood.
This is my home. My place. My soul resounds with the echo of the waves and breaths deeply of
the salty air of the South Pacific.
I make my way up the dirt path leading to the house on the hill. Beloved faces pour out of the
tiny tin and cement-block houses all around and I am engulfed in warm, enthusiastic hugs.
Tongues roll in familiar, exotic syllables and I easily pluck their meaning from the curry-flavoured
air. I learned to cook in these houses. I learned to play soccer on these streets. I danced in the
warm tropical rain on these hilltops. I drank fresh milk from this family's cow. I delight in
introducing my family to the Indian community of my childhood, nestled in this lush valley.
This is my home. My place. My soul soaks up the trilling of this language and breaths deeply of
the heavily spiced air.
I wade through dry grasses surrounding this country home and smile at my toddler son, so
excited to ride Grandad's tractor. His grandparents' home provides innumerable delights to a
young boy, from chickens to cows to tractors to a little red trike, and he rolls happily in the red
mud with his cousins. This is good, wholesome place that I married into, and the countryside of
Oklahoma joins with the myriad places in my soul.
I am a Third Culture Kid, and I have not sampled shallowly of the delights of this earth. No, I
have earned the right to each of the places in my soul. I have waded through Culture Shock and
dealt with the gritty reality that comes with real people in real places. I have not settled for some
packaged pretty tourist picture, no I have sat with cramped legs falling asleep for hours on end
through village meetings and I have burned my fingers in these cook fires and I have cried tears
of exhaustion in these mountains and I have picked up the pieces of our homes after a wildfire
and I have struggled through these unfamiliar sounds until I could hear my neighbor's heart. I
have wrestled with these places of the earth, and I have won my right to stand here and to say,
This is my Home. My Place. .
These Places have touched my soul, and I have touched theirs, and we are now one, however
breath-taking and gut-wrenching that reality may be.
These are the Places of my Soul.
My soul echoes with a myriad of tongues and breaths deeply of the air of these lands, and I am
wild and free and filled to the brim with the delights of these incredible Places.