Friday, I drove from Manchester Center (Vermont) to New Durham (New Hampshire). The roads started looking familiar thirty miles before arriving on Birch Hill. This isn’t surprising: I lived on Birch Hill from seventh grade well into my college years. It’s been over thirty years since I called Birch Hill home, but it still feels like coming home whenever I’m on it.

Saturday, I made the drive from New Durham to Wareham (Massachusetts). Once the treads hit Route 24, I was in home territory. This isn’t surprising: I’ve spent the past twenty years there. It’s where my children grew up, and where my husband and I found life-giving work and play.

Today, I made the drive from Wareham to Manchester Center (Vermont). When I hit Route 11, the landscape and houses started looking familiar. I got a feeling of getting close to home. This is surprising: I’ve only lived in Manchester since mid-September. It’s where people will come to visit me, and where I will find life-giving work and play in the coming years.

I’ve had other places I’ve called home, and felt that same love deep in my bones when I drove back there. But I’ve never had that feeling of homecoming for three different places in a matter of a couple of days and a couple hundred miles. I can’t say why this moves me so, but it does. To find a single place in the world to call home is a blessing. I suspect finding more than one is catching a glimpse of this world’s true nature: holy and infused with love.