I love being home. These past few weeks have involved a lot of travel. I get weary of eating out and being in a car. Do you?
One of the things I have thought about as I have been gone is how much my home means to me. I love it. I love the old wood walls. I love the uneven floor. I love the porch, the way the screen door creaks, and the way the sunshine comes through the front windows at 7:15 a.m.
Home has many meanings to people. Some of my friends "dread" going home because they don't like the way their house looks (fix it!) or who lives at their home (move 'em out!). I have a friend who has never owned a home because her husband believes that it is a silly waste of money. She hungers for a place she can paint or change. Another friend rents a room in a huge old house and is living a monastic life and is happy with that.
Home is where we hang our hat. It is where we sleep, eat, read, and cry. It is where we should be loved regardlesss of what is going on the rest of the world. Home is more than the substance that fills it. It is the cat who curls up in our lap, the chair that fits just right, the tub that leaks when we fill it.
My family moved 17 times in nearly as many years. Daddy wasn't in the military; he was in sales. Sometimes, I thought we were running from "the law." I was always the new kid -- wrong clothes, wrong slang, wrong place in the textbook. No one in my life, except my family, knew me before I was 36 years old. I think this is why I cling to my little bit of earth and house. It is home. I will live and die here. I plan to be laid out in the parlor when I die and be sprinkled on the rose garden -- when it is planted completely!
Paul Simon wrote in "Keep the Customer Satisifed":
Gee but it's great to be back home
Home is where I want to be.
I've been on the road so long my friend,
And if you came along
I know you couldn't disagree.