I’ve spent a considerable amount of time pondering the meaning of home. You know, the home that people refer to when they say, “We’re going back home for the holidays”.
I don’t really have a home in that sense. My parents don’t live in the house I was born in, much less the house I grew up in. We moved so much that my siblings and I really don’t have a place we identify as Home in that sense. I wonder, is it the place I was born? The place we lived the most years? The place my parents live now? The place I lived when I got married?
I was born in Managua, but since my family moved away from there when I was 6 months old I have never thought much about it. Other than that it’s where I was born I’ve never felt much of a connection. If you ask me where I am from my heart answers Panama since that’s really where I spent my formative years. I imagined I would never visit Nicaragua and I wasn’t that concerned. I cavalierly passed up the offer of citizenship when I was 17 or 18, thinking, why would I do that?
When I got the opportunity to speak at the upcoming WordCamp in Managua I jumped at the chance. Mostly I love to travel. But a chance to do what I love (talk to people about WordPress) and a chance to travel back to the place where I was born? Count me in.
As the trip gets close and closer I find myself getting more and more nervous. Why, I wonder. I’m not quite sure. I’ve begun to call it home in my mind, which I find funny as I know nothing about Managua. I have no memories or connections of the place, other than the people and places my family might mention from back in a day.
It will be interesting for sure. Even as I am nervous I am so excited for this full circle experience I get to have thanks to my fantastic job.
For a bit of fun, here are some pictures I dug up from my parent’s things: