In my youth,

my feet were tied to the ground

for but once a year.

Each summer,

I was set free in the once-foreign mountains

that quickly became the closest thing

I'd ever had to call home.

I was the kid always lost in a daydream in history class

wishing I was running through the pines,

playing Capture the Flag with my summer camp friends

instead of running down the sidewalk

from the bus stop to my doorstep

to get out of the rain before it could soak me to the bone.

My only goal in growing up was to escape;

to leave that coastal town

and find refuge in the mountains.

I had only ever seen my mountains in the summer

when they were dusted with wildflowers

and kissed by the sun all day long.

That first winter was a harsh wake-up call.

The wildflowers were replaced with snowflakes

and the warm friendly company of the summer sun

was replaced by the harsh bite of the winter wind.

I was suddenly alone in the only place I'd ever been able to call home.

So I did what any desperate young person would do

and I moved across the ocean.

To a far-off land, I brought my 23 kg suitcases

to chase a new mountain home.

It was everything I thought I'd ever wanted

but I had to leave too soon.

And though I grew up a lot in those foreign mountains an ocean away,

it wasn't enough to stop me from doing it again.

This is my third time running away to foreign mountains,

I think I have it figured out.

Don't let yourself float away to the moon

in search of newer mountains

that won't pack a winter bite.

Or you'll miss the flowers under your feet that bloom

while you're distracted looking for your new home.

Home is where you are,

where you plant your own wildflowers

and make your own summer sunshine warmth.

So now I yearn for those first foreign mountains

that will always be my favorite home.

A piece of my heart lives in each of the mountains I have floated away to.

And I feel at home in each,

but nothing can compare to the first place you make your home

and find yourself starting to bloom.