Every time something goes wrong, or I’m at my wit’s end with frustration, my knee jerk reaction is to move somewhere new and start all over again.

It’s almost instinctual: Boss yells at me, I guess that means I’m moving to Madagascar next week because bosses don’t exist on tropical islands do they? The mechanic tells me it’s going to cost $500 to repair, well obviously I need to relocate to Paris where there’s at least an underground. Heart-wrenching breakup? Maybe escape to a remote tribal nation where matriarchy is still in-tact. I did the math the other day and by the time I was 24, I’d moved 24 times, lived in ten different houses, eight apartments, two hotels, two couches and one dorm room.

Is she from a band of gypsies you ask? Unfortunately no, just a subculture known affectionately as “Military Brat”, where one day you’re living your little life, playing with the friends you probably just convinced to like you, when all of a sudden the orders come in and you’re off again, somewhere new. In this world I once considered very normal, the concept of home was vague and sometimes even laughable. Home? Home was a thousand different places. Home was the fifteen hours spent in a terminal or bus station. Home was the cramped space you were almost too big to stretch out in under your seats on the airplane. Home was the passenger side of a car traveling thousands of miles away from what you thought was home. Home was never setting down roots, always just flying away when the season changes.

In some sense this was a good thing. You could never ask for a better road trip partner than me. I definitely am not going to be the one bitching if we get stuck in an airport overnight, and if you dropped me anywhere in the world I could seamlessly weave myself into daily life and society as well as any covert agent. But I must come to terms with no matter how much I’d like to be James Bond, I am a woman participating in activities decidedly much less exciting than gun play and international intrigue. I’ve had to mold myself into a different sort of society – one that doesn’t pack up and get on a plane every time the shit hits the fan. This has been harder than anybody might realize. When you’ve gone your whole life thinking that you change and grow by moving, staying in once place seems deadening to heart and soul.

At the time I write this, I’ve been standing still in Los Angeles, living in the same house for five years, five months and thirteen days. I’ve never lived anywhere this long. The day I arrived back in 2003 with my 32 inch TV and Siamese cat, I was so exhausted and broke from transiency I figured I’d stay awhile. And though coming upon six years doesn’t fail to repeatedly astound me, can I now say that remaining in one place has stunted my personal growth? Exactly the opposite; setting down roots has been one of the most enriching experiences of my life. It’s as if somewhere along the line I decided to get all intimate with life. Light a candle and play some slow jams for it. No more casual encounters for me, thank you very much.

This is not to say that I haven’t railed against the reality of committing to one location. To stay means you dig in or any little thing can blow you away. To stay means you sacrifice things you greatly value. To stay means you shed skin and tears and blood. It’s much harder than leaving. But I’ve been able to quiet down the part of me that wants to walk out each time life twists in some unexpected way; the part that craves the anonymity of never really knowing anyone and no one ever knowing me. In the end it turns out, that is the most delightful thing – standing still long enough to watch the people around me grow too. Being able to have friends longer than a school year and getting to celebrate their progress through life each birthday is something I never fully experienced before. Having roots somewhere means being tied up in other people’s hopes and fears and having them tied up in mine. It keeps me grounded and nourished and constantly changing.

When I can’t handle the revolving door of roommates and I go check out places to live on my own, I always come home, begging my house’s forgiveness for having a wandering eye. I love it for its quirks and its spectacular views and even the hundred steps I have to walk up to get to my front door. I appreciate that it protects me from the Santa Ana winds in fall and the angry downpours in wintertime. My greater community I’ve also come to love. Though L.A. has kicked my ass a few times, I guess it was like getting jumped in. Now that I’m part of the gang, I can have endless discussions about which freeway route is faster. I’m suspicious of any Rite-Aid that doesn’t have a homeless person loitering outside and a trannie in the personal hygiene aisle. Most telling of all, I’ve completely lost my ability to navigate a car safely in the rain (don’t let any Los Angeline fool you, they can’t drive in the rain either).

Home is a thousand different places. It’s the fifteen hours you spend on your friend’s couch when you’re tired of trying to figure it out all by yourself. It’s that big space at the park you go to stretch out in the sun and read. It’s the side of the bed that has developed an everlasting impression of your butt. Home is setting down a hundred bucks for 600 thread count sheets that one day instead of acting on your urge to fly away to Brazil.