What do you call home? There are many cliches regarding the meaning of home. “Home is where the heart is.” “Home is where ever I lay my head down.” “There’s no place like home.” “Home is where our story begins.” “Home is not a place, but a feeling.” “Home sweet home.” These all hold an element of truth.
This may sound silly, but what about the people you carry in your heart, where is their home? And what about hearts that are walled and impenetrable? I am pretty sure, cold and foreboding castles and well protected, unreachable fortresses are not real homey. They are prisons!
Many people have to escape to find a comfortable place to rest. These folks take a vacation, visit a spa, frequent the local tavern, as if they are running away from home, trying to find a home. Contrarily, some people can sleep anywhere: standing up leaning against a wall, laying their head down on a desk, in a chair a crowded terminal, reclined in a car, and on park benches. I don’t know about you, but I certainly don’t consider these venues, home.
I love the concept that home is where our story begins, those who have read any of my writings, understand my adoration for a good story. But, not all stories begin well, some have tragic or inauspicious beginnings. Let’s face it, not all homes are not sweet, either. Furthermore, the saying “home is not a place, but a feeling” is a bit hard for me to swallow. I have discovered in my life’s journey, feelings distort truth, feelings lie.
Let us not confuse a house, a dwelling place, an abode, or whatever, with a home. A house may be filled with contention, strife and envy. A house will crumble under the weight of adversity. We can tear a house down with our own hands. But a home is weathered and made stronger with age, enduring every storm of life. Homes have echoes, secret passageways called memories, distinct smells – scents of the familiar, keepsakes, trinkets and treasures, legacy and traditions, framed moments in time cascading along their walls. Homes are full of imperfections: growth charts whittled into door frames, chipped plates and cups, discolored tile, missing shingles, aged wood... homes are made perfect through imperfection.
I am homeless. No, I am not living on the streets or in a shelter. But, I am without a home. For the last 14 months, I have been living in a state of “temporary.” I am not complaining or voicing a “woe is me.” I have had a place to lay my head at night, a roof over my head, all the essential necessities of life. Many times like Dorothy in Oz, I have stated, "Toto we are not in Kansas anymore." I do not call my dwelling place, home. It is not mine.... hum? Does that mean that having a home, requires ownership or belonging. I think belonging, more so, than ownership. I was discussing this theory with my aunt yesterday. She told me as we get older, it becomes more important to us, to have a place of our own. This concept is more like Mick Dundee from Crocodile Dundee II, when asked what he called his home in the outback, "Belong to Mick." The ideas of having “my chair," “my bed," “my bathroom," and we even laughed at “my remote control” are significant. Although, “my stuff” sounds selfish, truly, it is not. These things are vital to our well being, our measure of comfort, and our sense of belonging. When we are at home, we can find our way in the dark, because we know where everything is. We do not fear the unknown, because our surroundings are known, familiar. It is funny, when we are home, we can immediately sense when something is out of place, or that something is not right. Home is where, you can be you, and no one expects anything else. You can kick your shoes off, shake your hair loose, sit cross legged, and lay on the couch.
Home is a safe place, there should be no fear or anxiety. Going home should bring peace and joy, not dread or nervousness. When Dorothy spoke those infamous words “there’s no place like home,” she held a profound truth. She discovered this great wisdom, because she experienced a place that was not her home. Sure Oz was beautiful, adventuresome, she met some unique and unusual people... but she still longed for home. Kansas was where she belonged, it was her purposed landscape, her personalized setting, the yellow brick road led her to her destination... a placed called home.
I do not know your defined meaning of home. Or where you call home. But I hope your home is peaceful, a place you can lay your head down and rest. I hope your home is full of joy and laughter, friends and family. I hope your whole heart is in your home, not wandering to and fro searching. But if you find yourself lost and in an unknown place, I hope you find the road that leads you where you belong. I hope your home is full of charming, priceless treasures, making it “home sweet home.” I hope your home is full of stories - mystery, romance, action and adventure. But, most of all, I hope your homegrown stories are historical, full of timeless, ageless deeds and exploits. I hope you are dwelling in a place called home.
Until next time,
Cheryl
