home is where the light beckons

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Home is like what you take away each time you leave the house. Like a wristwatch, it ticks beside the ticking that is your heart. Whether or not your hear it, look at its face, or feel its hold. We’re with you is what the minute, hour, and second hands of home have to tell……Michael J. Rosen

remember the tired old house and the tired old road that led away? where have we been all this time? and oh how we see that house from so far away, tinted like rose colored ash, sweetly misted and just the right amount of wind in the trees…..may you dream in soft colors….

I meet many people in my line of work and they inevitably ask me within a few moments of conversation, ‘Where are you from?’

I struggle with how to answer this question on a regular basis and, depending upon my mood, my answer may be different every time.

How do you tell a relative stranger that the last place that felt like home was a small town in Illinois where cornfields made a natural boundary for your school’s playground? Where nobody in your neighborhood had a fence and all of the children played together? Where your neighbors who lived across the street from you were your adopted family? Where the driveway was so big that you learned how to ride your bike in it because you were too afraid of the street?

Where no other place has ever felt like home since you left at the age of nine?

Do I dare confess that I have been searching for a place that offers that same wonder and sense of community ever since I left?

All of these things rotate through my mind the instant I am asked this simple question. Some have even commented on the perplexed look on my face as I attempt to piece together a response. One would think this would be an easy response, as I have often observed from so many others. But as someone who has lived in many places throughout her life, it becomes difficult to identify with one locale as the place where you are ‘from.’

Since moving from my childhood home, I have grappled with finding comfort living in many places. I’m practically embarrassed to share the number of times I have moved even within the last few years.

While I have learned to shed the traditional trappings of home and find a place within myself that no physical location can provide, I still yearn for the feeling of home as a geographical place—and that there is a point somewhere on a map where I well and truly belong. So, for anyone who wants an authentic answer, this is where I am from:

The Big Bang. The same stardust from which you and everything else in this universe is made.

My mother’s womb.

This moment. The present.

Right here, right now. I am wrought from the fires of every trial I have ever faced. I am from every joy and every laugh and every song that has echoed in your ears.

I am from a place in the heavens, the sweet underbelly of the universe, that I incessantly yearn to be reunited with. It is a place I dream of regularly. One where I am rushing over an ocean towards a towering and shining island. Where a touch on my shoulder prompts me to look over to see a warm and sage face smile at me and utter the sweet phrase, ‘Welcome home. We’ve missed you.’….Linda K. Gravano

moving through

Home is a name, a word, it is a strong one;

stronger than magician ever spoke,

or spirit ever answered to,

in the strongest conjuration.

…….Charles Dickens

3 thoughts on “home is where the light beckons

  1. Of all the things we carry with us, home is perhaps the lightest. Every year or so, I find reason to be in the area where my grandparents lived for most of my life. Each time, my initial response is the same ‘who moved the house closer to the road?’ In my memory, the yard was huge as was the orchard and the pond. It was surely a day’s walk to my grandpa’s store (rather than the 1/4 mile it is now). And how could such a little house and little porch hold so many people, so much love? In the confines of my heart, the roof pushes against my breastbone and apples fall to the safety of little hands. We may move, and we may love the feel of many floors beneath our naked feet……..but always, there is something greater we carry with us. We may wander, but we never really leave. *sigh* I really really love this………

    there’s no sign
    to point the way
    no wear upon the road
    but I’d swear
    the air is cleaner
    in that place

    beyond the want
    for getting back –
    someone waits me now
    denied the fault
    for leaving
    opened arms of grace

    • oh, this warms my heart…..like that little ache received as a gift of light….the same light that beckons from lit up windows on my evening walk…..Gaston Bachelard in The Poetics of Space, described each room of a house as a metaphor for our deepest longings…..and you simply light up our hearts with this, an opening of a long forgotten door……sweet home dreams to you Bobbie…

  2. Pingback: little hands ~ | tornadoday

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