And Suddenly . . . You're Home!

For many people the idea of "home" is a given. Simply put, they have lived in their houses for 20 years or more. They are forever, intrinsically melded with the place they live. Years ago this was more common. Mom and Dad would live in the house where they raised their family and would stay there until they died. I have a very good friend that bought the house next door to his father's house shortly after he first got married and has lived within several miles of where he grew up his entire life.

I, on the other hand, must have some Gypsy blood in me. I mentioned in an earlier blog that we have moved thirteen times in 34 years of marriage. Growing up, my dad moved many more times before that. So you would think the idea of "home" would have become a little confusing for us. Personally, I think it clarifies the issue.

For us, "home" is where our heart is. It is the people we come back to. It is our safe haven when the rest of the world is too crazy to deal with. It is our refuge and our sanctuary. It is a place where we can be ourselves. Utterly and completely.

Now, don't get me wrong. I don't believe that "home" is just a state of mind. It requires a physical location, as well. We have lived in some places that we always thought of as temporary stepping stones. Way stations in life's journey. But while we were there, we brought the love and care in with the rest of the stuff.

We have been in places where we never completely unpacked and in others where our roots became deep and strong. I have had five mortgages over the years. Five times where we thought, "This is it! This is where we stop moving." We spent seventeen years in Hazleton, PA, to provide a stable home life while the boys were in school and growing up.

Next month will mark three years here at the resort. We have made many changes to make this place our own. I have turned the garage into an office, built a party deck on the back of the house, remodeled inside, AND I am getting ready to unpack the rest of my books. That may not seem like a big deal to most people but, to me, it is an indicator that we are home.

I love books. I love their texture and feel. I love the worlds they take me to and the people and ideas they introduce me to. I love their sense of permanence. But I hate packing and moving them. They are a pain in the ass and they are heavy. For me to be willing to unpack the rest of my books tells me I am home. I'm not just here until something better comes along.

Life is meant to be lived. I will never lose my curiosity about what is around the next corner or over the next mountain nor will I ever shirk a responsibility. I've always done what I thought was right for my family -- wherever that took us. And now, the right thing is to settle down. We can enjoy and explore the world from right here, knowing that wherever our new life takes us . . . we can always come home.