Clearly it’s a place. A spot on the map. The door opening. A warm bed. Somewhere we can retreat to and find sanctuary.
For some, of course, home is meant to be left, gotten away from. As soon as possible. A repository of pain and difficult times.
But whatever our first experiences of home, we all are called in adulthood to construct a home in the world.
Yet, what is that, really?
Poet and author David Whyte writes:
This is the bright home
in which I live,
this is where
this is where I want
to love all the things
it has taken me so long
to learn to love.
This is the temple
of my adult aloneness
and I belong
to that aloneness
as I belong to my life.
There is no house
like the house of belonging.
Whyte implies that home is more than just a place to hang our hats. It’s as much inside of us as outside in the world.
For several years, I’ve been bewitched by the paradox of home.
And somewhere inside of myself I knew that my recurring dreams about houses, my yearning to return to my roots, my image of a cottage near deep blue ocean and towering redwoods, all of it, was about more than just the outer world.
It was inner. It was me. My deep waters. My essence. My core.
Finding the depth of the ocean and the roots of the redwood tree inside of myself. Coming back to my own house of belonging.
So during this week of Thanksgiving when many are making their way home, or welcoming others into their homes, I thought it fitting to ask:
What is your own house of belonging?
It doesn’t matter if it’s outer or inner, real or imagined, actual or symbolic. Share it with us and we’ll all be nourished by each other’s stories of home.
And by the way, I want to give thanks to you, for stopping by this little online home of mine. In your honor, I raise my glass. In fact, let’s all raise our imaginary glasses together.