I take solace in the fact that there is nothing new or unique in my search and longing for home(s). It is an old, some say eternal longing, and perhaps one of the few that unite instead of dividing us.
You may wonder about the one I was born into, and I will always belong there, but perhaps a past version of me. I can be retro-fitted occasionally but it is never quite as good as the original deal. As I move around in the world, trying to be gentle with myself and others, to forgive myself all the lives I am unable to live, I am curious if I will ever find home. I don't think I am lost, but I am wandering and I am reminded of this verse:
"All that is gold does not glitter,
Not all those who wander are lost;
The old that is strong does not wither,
Deep roots are not reached by the frost."
~ J.R.R Tolkien
I am coming to slowly accept that home is less a place than it is people, memories that have been made and are waiting around the corner, fragrances, the little precious things that I at least cling on to. Occasionally I feel like I have come home when I find a poem that I want to believe is about my life. It isn't. But I too have my lies. Believing in poetry is one of them.
Perhaps home is a place I will always travel with in my heart. Perhaps I will try and try and try to find a home in others, only to realize that where I am, is my home. I cannot decide if it is wise or unwise, this giving into love, not the gooey candy kind, but the rough-edged rock that over time feels cool and comforting in my hands. I try not to think of it too often; otherwise I hear the roaring of waves, reminding me of how temporary all of it is. In one way I suppose home would be being grounded somewhere. I used to be nimble, avoiding the many quicksands of my twenties, but somewhere I stopped to smell the flowers and life has never been quite the same again. I hope (if you so hope) that your home lives in you.
You may wonder about the one I was born into, and I will always belong there, but perhaps a past version of me. I can be retro-fitted occasionally but it is never quite as good as the original deal. As I move around in the world, trying to be gentle with myself and others, to forgive myself all the lives I am unable to live, I am curious if I will ever find home. I don't think I am lost, but I am wandering and I am reminded of this verse:
"All that is gold does not glitter,
Not all those who wander are lost;
The old that is strong does not wither,
Deep roots are not reached by the frost."
~ J.R.R Tolkien
I am coming to slowly accept that home is less a place than it is people, memories that have been made and are waiting around the corner, fragrances, the little precious things that I at least cling on to. Occasionally I feel like I have come home when I find a poem that I want to believe is about my life. It isn't. But I too have my lies. Believing in poetry is one of them.
Perhaps home is a place I will always travel with in my heart. Perhaps I will try and try and try to find a home in others, only to realize that where I am, is my home. I cannot decide if it is wise or unwise, this giving into love, not the gooey candy kind, but the rough-edged rock that over time feels cool and comforting in my hands. I try not to think of it too often; otherwise I hear the roaring of waves, reminding me of how temporary all of it is. In one way I suppose home would be being grounded somewhere. I used to be nimble, avoiding the many quicksands of my twenties, but somewhere I stopped to smell the flowers and life has never been quite the same again. I hope (if you so hope) that your home lives in you.
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