Home.
One word, one syllable. Yet it can contain so many emotions.
Dictionaries can give the stated definition of home: One's dwelling or place. But when we think of home, is that what we think of? "One's dwelling or place"? When I think of home, I think of the smell of dinner cooking. And warmth. And the rare occasions my siblings and I get along, and the house sings with harmony. When I picture home, I picture sliding my jacket off onto the coat rack, and a feeling of relief wash through me. That is my home. What is yours?
When I ask what your home is, I don't mean the color of your walls, the size of your yard, or your street address. If I say the word, "home" out of the blue, what do you first think of? Is it a memory? Is it, in fact, that sensation of when you see your house a block away on your bike, and you can't wait to get in there, feel safe again? Is "home" your family? Is "home" your sanctuary? Can you imagine your life without this place to return to night after night?
"A man's home, and a man's family. They always bring him back again."
Some of us joke that we have many "homes". Our friends' houses become our permanent residents at times of trouble, loss, that seeking of companionship. Our neighborhood starts to feel like home. You have memorized the houses, the corners, the street signs, and the immaculate lawns. As we run out of breath into our neighborhood, you can feel that heart slow down just a little bit.
And even though we would like so much to believe it, for some people, home just isn't what it used to be.
As we come into our teenage years, for some they are already thriving and present, home can just be a place of bother. Nagging parents, chores to be done, piles of homework and stress in every corner. Lord, sometimes it's just easier to let your eyes flick over that place you used to call home and keep walking till you reach a friendlier place. A grandparent's house, a friend's place. There, the air seems to be clearer. Everything seems to be calmer more relaxed. Your mind gets to wondering why you would ever want to go back to that house full of tension again.
"A man's home, and a man's family. They always bring him back again."
And it's true.
I know how it feels to seem so closed in in your own house. If a home truly is a person's "sanctuary," then why doesn't it feel that way? Home is angry now, home is unbearable. We linger anywhere besides that block. There seems to be more oxygen where you are now.
I know that wonderful feeling of breaking off all ties holding us down, and just running out that door, letting that cool air purge out our bodies. But we always go back. Whether it's an hour later, coming in the door revived, yet not ready to forgive, and trouping back to our room, rebellious. Or sneaking in when it's dark, safer in that dark. Sometimes leaving our home is the best medicine for whatever animosity is left over.
There are always those stories of "finding yourself" when you are older, flying away from your home. Leaving that environment for some, that plagues us, just to get a clean slate. A new start. Things might be there when you get back, but the cuts are just scars now, and maybe you'll be able to run a finger over them. Maybe.
Even if home seems to just be trouble for some of us, we'll do anything to keep it. Home, just the very word, tugs at our hearts. Pulls us back, right where we need to be.
And coming back after a late night, dried tears still leaving your face feeling tight, that particular scent when we slip through the door, the smell of home -- it can be the perfect antidote.
Glitsygrl
