Yesterday I was out visiting some people, enjoying the friendship, as I got up to leave, I spoke saying “I guess it is time go home”. While I was driving, I began to wonder, just where home really is. Pulling into my drive to a home of sorts, this was where I lived but it was not home, not anymore than the many places and houses I had lived before.

Places of only brief refuge from the worries and troubles of the world, made personal and private by ones own tastes and hidden fantasies. For some a showplace of great perfection the blind would never see, made for admiring, not for living lest it all be disturbed, out of place. Saying, “see, here, this is my perfect life, built as only I want it to be” For others it is just a place to be for a while, valuing it only as such.

But where then is home; is it where we grew up, the house we lived in. For many this brings mixed reactions, for all the happy homes existing, there were so many unhappy homes where life’s beginnings were hard. Are both home. We call them both home. Where does the difference lie. in that place you hide from others where memories good and bad live, open the door of time and reach in and remember your own panorama. Was it truly your home, or was it just the place you happen to be raised.

Home. Such a magical word of so many definitions, of fact and of mind, could it be just a mythical place we carry in dreams, ever searching for. I have been home many times in my life, both in person and in memory, yet, few of these were ever in the same physical place, or even in time. But, in the true sense of the word, I was home, I was where I belonged.

For home is not a place, to be truly home is a sensation felt by the heart. Home can only be found where love is. Not partial love, nor controlling love, but only where true love and acceptance of one’s self worth is welcomed. In those arms where I am loved then I am truly home, if only for a little while, a home more real to me than a castle, for it is here, only here I feel safe. For you see I know home, the real home we all return to is just that, love, and since that is so, how can anywhere be called home where love is not.

Home is not a place of physical dimensions, yet we can own it just as well, we carry the essence of home with us wherever we go deep inside a heart. Watching the joy in someone as they see us arrive are we not home again, to see the love light shine ever so deeply in another’s eyes, are we not home?
Wrapped gently in arms of love is a home of the finest grandest palace of life, to go home is not to go to a place, it is to go to where your heart is at peace.

I am lost in the space between heartbeats, where time has no meaning. Breath is of vibrations instead of air, silence becomes as beautiful music. And ever so softly the melody plays on my soul..…….if only for a while.

“Reprise of a piece I wrote in July 2000”