Go away with no string on your straw sandals.
—Dogen Zenji

Today I left home and arrived home. I wedged the door of the turtlebus closed with a stick, and rode the ferry across the Salish Sea. Home to the Appias, Apt. 306. Home to my storage locker full of clothes and photographs and love letters and junk. Home to late night sushi and East Van pride. Home to sirens and concrete, traffic and crime. Home to Vancouver, my calling, my peeps. Home to where the homeless find home on the street. This city is my home because I made it to be so. I invented this city to mirror my dreams. My home is with the crows flying east in the evening. My home is with the crows flying west toward dawn.

Sometimes in speaking of Vancouver I still slip and say Toronto. Toronto: my first wonderland, my prison yard and playground. Toronto where my brother still lives and where my parents lie buried. Is Toronto still home? Yes it is.

I go home to Upaya to meet with my teacher. Home to the high desert where my skin cracks and bleeds. Home, to the dharma, the reality of my experience. Home to the shoes on my feet, the air that i breathe, the place where my wheels meet the road.

To go home is to surrender to place and to time. My home is anywhere i choose to call mine.