Like a house.
My father’s answer to so many of my questions about life’s uncertainties, twists, joys, and tragedies was often the same thing: Jas, just keep going.
It’s possible I’ve taken this advice too literally. Since the time I was 18, I have been in a constant state of motion.
This practice has been both extraordinary and agonizing. The more I “go”—physically, emotionally, intentionally, or unintentionally—the more I find myself in uncomfortable situations that leave a mark. At best, I learn something new about myself and others. At worst, I disappoint those I love, friends and family alike, who don’t always understand what pulls me.
At the very worst, it’s exhausting and isolating. But, as my friend Tim once said to me, “I feel bad for leaving, but not bad enough to stay.”
In my line of work, you learn to pick up where you left off if you want to have a friend for more than a day. It’s not fair, but them’s the rules. If you can play it just right, you’ll end up with lifelong friendships, incredible memories, and stories for days. Separation, it’s been told, is not the end of the love, but the beginning.
I wrote this song, “Like a House,” thinking of how it feels to come back and forth to a life at home after being on the road—and what it must feel like to have me suddenly back making a mess in your kitchen and then disappearing again like a ghost. The narrator is selfish and looking for something: a mythical, romantic place to put down roots so he can stop moving.
Here’s a secret: I found it.