The Idea of Home

When you don't know where to put down roots

This past winter, a friend lent me a couple volumes of Sigurd Olson’s essays. I had been unfamiliar with the phrase “smoky gold” to describe tamaracks in fall, so to remedy my gap in Upper Midwestern knowledge, I dove into pages of canoe trips on wilderness lakes, long days fishing from riverbanks, and cozy nights in remote cabins. Sigurd Olson was a great fan of disappearing into nature and I don’t think it’s possible to read his books and not start dreaming of your own foray into the woods.

However, the essay I haven’t been able to get out of my head features the stone wall Sig¹ built next to his writing shack with the rocks he collected on his travels. And though that might look like wilderness to the average city dweller, for him this was the frontcountry.

In The Singing Wilderness, he writes:

“I like stones…They make me remember places I have seen: cliffs covered with mosses and harebells, roaring canyons in the wilderness, talus slopes where the marmots live, glaciated ridges, pebbled beaches and rocky shores…That wall is a record of my travels and an album of all creation, each stone a separate page from the long story of the past.”

I also like stones and have a penchant for decorating my bookshelves with interesting specimens. But where Sig and I differ is that I have nowhere to build. His stone wall tells the tales of a life well-traveled, but it was located at his home—a place where he put down roots and could be sure to enjoy the fruits of his wall-building for many years. My collection is constrained by what I can consolidate into a box the next time I move.

So, the question that shakes around my mind is: “Where would I want to build my stone wall?”

The current state of my stone wall

Sig made me realize that I haven’t put down roots anywhere. I’ve got the disappearing-into-nature part down pat, but what I return to—my life in a city—feels like liminal space. Google Maps recognizes it as my home address, but it’s not my longterm home. It’s more like a waiting room until the next chapter of my life.

Over the nearly 15 years I’ve been in Chicago, I have lived in five apartments and rebuilt my community multiple times as beloved friends moved out of the city, out of the state, out of the Midwest. I have stayed, but not because I envision myself here for the rest of my life. I just can’t envision myself anywhere.

Part of that lack of imagination is that I didn’t expect I would make decisions like these on my own. But being single at 36 means I need to plan for the future with the assumption that life will continue to be a solo adventure. And the options for what that life could be are endless and overwhelming.

When everywhere is a potential home, where do you build your stone wall?

Do you move to where you have the greatest density of friends and hope that none of them move away? Try to recreate what you loved about your childhood hometown, even though you don’t plan to have kids? Choose the ideal spot for recreation? Or where you have the best job opportunities? Do you plan for what you (think you) will want in retirement so you can maximize the number of years enjoying your stone wall?

Or do you just wait in your perfectly-fine-but-nothing-special apartment and wait until your travels bring you somewhere that gives you butterflies?

An obstructed view of York Minster from the top of the city walls

I’ve had those butterflies twice since I started thinking about where I want to eventually end up. The first time was in York, with its walkable city center, historic architecture, and proximity to beautiful countryside and coastal hikes. The second time was on Minnesota’s North Shore, where the small towns overlooking Lake Superior remind me of the touristy village I grew up in along the Great South Bay (albeit with a lot more rocks).

Yet, I am still in Chicago.

Looking over Grand Marais Harbor from Artist’s Point

It’s not enough to fall in love with a place. Putting down roots requires logistics—finding a job, a place to live, people to be part of your community. Maybe a braver person would pack a U-Haul and not worry about missing the unrooted life they are leaving behind. However, I am an over-thinker and an over-worrier.

So for now, my stone wall doesn’t get built. But I imagine what it might look like, the landscape that might surround it, the cocktail glasses that might rest upon it during a summertime party. My stone wall won’t look like Sig’s stone wall, but mine will feel like home.

1. I claim no relationship with Sigurd Olson that would give me the right to use a nickname, but I challenge anyone to read his works and not feel a little bit like he has become an old friend. I think often about the stone wall and in those thoughts it is always “Sig’s stone wall,” so please forgive my familiarity.