moats and boats and waterfalls

Home.

What a strange solid little word for such a huge elusive slippery thing.

So many things mean home to me. 

Home is being in the house I grew up in, walking on the braided rug I know from all those years ago, pacing out the patterns the way I did when I was five or six. Home is sitting on the front steps of my dorm, with a good book and people passing by every few minutes. Home is the way the waves of the sea crash against my very soul, taking my breath away while somehow giving me back the vivacity I'd forgotten. Home is crouching on a step-stool in the housekeeping office, leaning my head against my knees, and listening to the pidgined language flying around me, content to wait and savor that moment. Home is the trees, the lawn, the treehouse, the stream--all in my backyard. 

Home is the camaraderie of the conversations with the older couples at my church, flirting gently with the men and holding the hands of the women. Home is the freedom to scream and weep in front of a dear friend, and the knowledge that when I collapse, finally drained of all the rage and pain, she'll still be there. Home is the laughter and solemnity of reunion weekends. Home is the casualness of shouting through the bathroom door at someone in the shower. Home is the discovery of another spirit made kindred through the common bonds we share. Home is reading a book out loud, squished among four little kiddos I've learned to call "mine." Home is my father . . . my mother . . . my sister . . . my brother. 

Home is the way I move through Jerusalem, strong and brave and quick, knowing there are eyes on me and not caring, keeping my head high and my face forward while my feet and hips move in a strange and swirling dance to avoid the other walkers. Home is a romance that's yet to come. Home is settling into my seat in a classroom, excited about the coming discussion, sharing laughter and smiles with my fellow students. Home is late-night tea-talks. Home is the unhinging feeling of burying my hands and face in the long fur of a wriggling dog or a purring cat. Home is the freeness of being barefoot everywhere I go. Home is the long, long farewell hugs; the shaking sobs that are made shameless by the depth of the grief; the wild determination that I have to come back, I must come back.


Is home the place? The people? The feelings?


Or is Home something I'll never quite reach, this side of eternity? Is it something that I'm meant to always miss? Will there always be that little twinge that makes me remember that there's something even more Home-y yet to come? 

Home, I think, means feeling good in my own skin, and delighting in how my whole self fits into the place I am, and knowing that my very soul is recognized as beautiful by those around me. True home is having roots that go down deep. Whether those roots are in something lasting and solid, or something transient, is a decision I make each and every day . . .

Home is wherever there is you