In my life I’ve moved around a lot. No real reason except I have the soul of a gypsy. I always wanted to be a writer, but like most, couldn’t make a living at it. So I moved from job to job.

Most people, when they move to a new place, have a ritual or two. Set a bouquet of flowers on the table, burn incense or sage, go to the neighborhood bar to have a drink and meet the locals. In some way, we all have something that helps ground us in the new place. Makes us feel secure, makes us feel we’ve come home.

There are two things I’ve always done, and I never realized they were a ritual until years had passed and I looked back. I got my first drivers license as soon as I was old enough, and my first paychecks went to buy a car before anything else. In a small town, a car was a symbol of adulthood. It was the freedom to go where I wanted when I wanted. Each new town I moved to, the first thing I did was get a drivers license to match my new address.

My next move was always to get a library card. No matter where I’ve lived, libraries have been my home away from home. Books are my family. They’re old friends from my childhood or new friends waiting to be discovered, or wise friends to consult. There’s a lot more to libraries now than just books, but the meaning is the same. With a drivers license, I was both grounded and free. With a library card, I felt settled into the neighborhood. I was home.

At one point in my life, I left where I’d been living to be with my parents in a different state. Of course, I had to get a new drivers license for the new address. I was shocked and annoyed when the DMV insisted I turn over my current license (used to be they didn’t care and trusted you not to use the old one for nefarious purposes). I’d moved in order to help my parents who were having health issues, and I had a vague expectation that eventually I would move back, possibly before the old license had expired. But no, my new state said I was only allowed one at a time. I handed the old one over. Getting a library card took another three weeks and forty dollars, since I lived in an outer township and my address didn’t qualify. I felt a bit untethered.

Several years later, with both parents gone, I moved back to the town I’d lived in before. Immediately I drove to the Department of Motor Vehicles to apply for yet another new drivers license, only to find that the local office had been closed down due to budget restraints. The next nearest one was over an hour away, and it was Friday afternoon. I drove instead to the local library. Holding a bit of mail I’d brought to prove I was a resident, I approached the desk and asked to get a card. The librarian took my name, tapped into her computer and smiled.

“No problem,” she said. “You’re still in the system.”

Her computer clicked, some machine somewhere whirred, and in a moment she handed me my new laminated library card. I stared at it.

“Something wrong?” she asked.

“Nope, not a thing.” It was my turn to smile. “I’ve come home.”