Leaving and Going Home

Home is something I have a sense of – it’s not just a building that shelters my family and our possessions, or the geographic point on the map where I was born. It’s the place where I can walk around in my bare feet, make a big mess and say whatever I want. It’s where my heart feels at peace and people know who I am – and quite possibly love me anyway.

I’ve been to the Pacific Ocean, the Arctic Ocean and the Atlantic (the one ocean I’ve crossed.) That’s a lot of physical distance covered, but how far I’ve made it away from ‘home’ is hard to measure.

Mostly the places I’ve travelled to have become my home. Maybe I just take home along with me wherever I go. When I leave my present home to travel to the other side of the country to visit family, I still call it going home, because that’s what it feels like. Even if it’s hard to pinpoint exactly where home is, I know when I’m going there.

I am a homebody, that’s for sure, despite all the nomadic wandering I’ve done. I’ve been homesick for different places, and the people who are there. Often my mind will go off on a million mile trip all by itself, but so far it’s always come back home. That’s the kind of ‘travel’ I prefer – the kind you do in a comfy chair with your eyes closed, confident that you’ll make it home in time for dinner.

The very best part of any other kind of travel, for me, has always been the part where I come back home, kick off my shoes, dump the contents of my suitcase on the bedroom floor and curl up in my very own bed.

Say these three little words to me and I will love you forever – “Let’s go home.”

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