I'm goin' home
to a place where I belong...
where Love has always been enough for me..."
I love Chris Daugherty's "I'm Going Home." I hope you do too. Here's today's story.
I was standing on our front porch this afternoon, just about to leave for an appointment, when it occurred to me that although this has been my 56th house in 56 years, my home has never changed.
That may sound like a bunch of metaphysical mumbo jumbo...and to be honest, it would have struck me that way (although I'm not sure I would have admitted it) not so long ago. But in that moment, those were no longer just good thoughts that could sustain me through another day of wondering if I'd ever really feel an abiding sense of home...they were substantive, tangible...I could actually feel those ideas, as if they were part of me.
Sure, I have long loved the sentiments of writers whose axioms about "home" have graced the walls of mansions, suburban split levels, farmhouses, and mobile homes in framed cross-stitch pieces and hand-painted signs for centuries. Sayings like:
"Home is where the heart is."
"Home is where your story begins."
"There's no place like home."
But I've still ached to find that last place I could call home...forever. A place that no one could take away from me. A place that is mine. A place where I can put down roots, and where our children could come home to roost...no matter what, no matter when.
I don't think that those dreams are unattainable...for anyone else. But, for me, they have felt like something just beyond the fog or mist...just out of reach...and for such a long time.
But this afternoon, standing on the front porch, looking back through the open front door, and into the house -- where my husband was standing with our puppy in his arms -- something became a little clearer to me.
The light behind him...spilling, and pooling, in soft golden puddles on the polished pine floors, the unique mix of patterns...florals, stripes, black and cream checks, the bookcases that line the walls...filled with volumes of prose, poetry, fiction, biography, inspirational and self-help books that mirror the quilts folded and shelved throughout the house, the co-mingling scents of lavender, brownies, and cinnamon that fill the air...my favorite perfume - all these things are not geographical. They do not have anything to do with a particular house or neighborhood. They are the languages of my heart. They are the landscape of Love.
No one can take these things from us...or from my children. My children come home to my heart's landscape, not a particular address.
Standing on the porch this afternoon, I realized that wherever I go...whether I have this couch or that painting, this lamp or that Adirondack chair...or nothing...within hours I would find a way to carve out a space, feather a nest, create a home that was as warm and cozy -- as filled with all that we love -- as this one is. Home is in me...it is a active presence voicing itself.
That moment brought a very special feeling of freedom...
Mary Baker Eddy says,
"Home is the dearest spot on earth..."
I agree, but I don't think this "spot" is geographical...it is spiritual.
welcome to my home...
Kate Robertson, CS