The sense of home has always been problematic to me. I was a seasonal nomad for many years, living in 15 different states, moving the same stuff around the country. I had boxes that remained unpacked, because what was the point, if I was leaving again in six months?
There are a lot of places I could live. I like looking out of car or plane windows and seeing the lights of houses or dirt roads leading up to remote cabins, wondering what it would be like to live there. In all the places I called home, even if it was just for a few months, there were good things, even in the midst of months of darkness and cold (Alaska) and "rock fever"(living on one of the Hawaiian islands). When people say, "I couldn't live there" about a place this bothers me. Obviously they physically could. They might even find something great about it.
But even if you could physically live anyplace, would it feel like home?
I've lived in my current town for 10 years, longer than I've lived anywhere since I left my parents' house. I know the best routes to get places. People ask me about hiking trails. I have a small but mighty support system. I could still decide to pick up and leave, but even though I'm retired, I have no plans currently to do so.
Is it home? I think so, but a lot of places could be, too. I've lived in bunkhouses, a tiny trailer surrounded by wild bunnies, and a cabin without water, heat, or a bathroom. For a brief time they were all home to me. I've lived by the ocean, in the desert, and in the mountains. For the most part, I loved them all. More than a place, I carried home with me. It wasn't a particular town or house. It was in my heart instead.