We all expect 3. If staring into the tarnished dents of an old lamp with an overpowering urge to rub it, we all expect a genie to pop out bearing three wishes. What if there were a mix-up in genie accounting and you were granted only 1? What would you wish for if there were just a single opportunity? When fictionally confronted by this some would hope for world peace, others Enlightenment, still others more wishes. Me? I’d ask for Home. 
 
Home is a mythical, fantastical place defined by legend and located just to the right of imagination. For the past 42 years I’ve walked this planet with a sincere longing for Home. The more psychologically attuned would blame this on the adoption. That does have validity; I still don’t know where I was born. Were I speaking only in recent terms I would accept it as the answer.
 
What troubles me deeply isn’t confined to the recent…this lifetime. It seems to have permeated my consciousness and entered my soul. Home is key to my identity, not as a 21st centurion, but as a soul. It seems to have been kept from memory, perhaps strategically and most certainly against my wishes.
 
When I was 21 the truth of my adoption came out, to the contrary of my parents’ plans. They had confessed that I was meant to be kept in the dark. For several years I wanted nothing more than a sense of history and belonging. Since a child I’ve never seen myself as citizen of this city, country or even hemisphere. Rather, I knew I was a resident of Earth and called myself a globalist. But with the adoption suddenly released, I felt the outrageous need to know what nations and ethnicities built me. As I grew older I noticed that those things are distractions from the real questions. What I should’ve been hunting for was on the grander scale…what built my soul?
 
As the years trudged on it became more apparent that my total lack of belonging might not be from the adoption. It might in fact be from this physical form. That idea blew the search for Home into a new realm of possibilities. I have memories of being a large animal, the size of a wolf, trying to cross the highway and being hit by a passing car. In elementary school I sat in the backyard on summer nights looking up and waiting and so disappointed when no one came by. Cetaceans speak directly to my soul. I can say with complete confidence that trees are here as the Earth’s guardians and that science is close on so many things, but they don’t think they know as much as they believe. This body has felt like a vehicle and not integral to my existence for as far back as I can recall.  So much information colliding in the same mind leaves me entirely confused. Nothing seems to clearly suggest Home. What am I?
 
I’ve been told by the spirits around me that I’m not ready to know yet. At least they said “yet”, which gives me hope. I understand what they’re saying. Part of me is still grappling with the stigma that goes along with these unique thoughts. “You really believe you’re from Sirius? What a nut job…Mayor of Crazytown is more like it.”
 
No one’s supposed to be anything more than standard human, right? But what if I’m not? What if so many others are not? Perhaps I’m not the only one so homesick for an undisclosed location that it tears at my heart. Perhaps too I’m not the only one who struggles with how insane it sounds and works to convince myself that society is wrong.
 
If the genie insisted on taking all three wishes, I’d still use only 1. Once I find Home the other wishes won’t matter.