When change comes knocking, we want to go home.
I remember living in a rundown house in California in which the cabinets were comprised of plyboard held together by contact paper. The bedrooms were so tiny I envied my hamster in his Habitrail. The carpet was dirty and the stove had only one working burner. Yet, when we pulled away from that avocado green house with the dilapidated orange front door, it happened. I missed it.
I wanted to go home.
Once we arrived at our new place and settled in, I found that the new house quickly became home.
I sang with my family around the piano in its living room. I made-out with my boyfriend in the car, parked in the driveway, while my dad (or brother) flickered the porch light letting me know I’d been out there long enough.
I watched my friend, Scott, fall in the driveway and break his leg (he still swears I somehow caused that accident, but I didn’t).
The house was large, drafty, and had one bathroom for the five of us. And my Farrah hairstyle did not do well when rushed through the drying process. I wanted out.
Then mom and dad moved, and, again, I wanted to go home.
So, what is home?
I have finally figured out that home is a puzzle comprised of different pieces of our heart.
Home is routine, a place where odd habits like staring at a wall every morning while drinking coffee is accepted (yes, husband, that’s for you).
Home is comprised of those who love us, and those we love. Like the sister who hearts you even though you used to throw hot curlers at her when your hair messed up (sorry, Linda).
There are those of us who don’t come from homes that were safe, or loving. And yet we still yearn for it and cry our eyes out when E.T. points at the sky and says “h-o-o-o-o-o-ome.”
So, that makes me think that . . .
Home is where we were originally created. Its very definition is part of our DNA.
Home is in the hands of the love that formed us and placed us gently on earth.
Home is a place we feel, but can’t prove.
Home is the moment we look into a stranger’s eyes and feel we somehow know them.
Home is in the hands of a person helping a wounded animal, and in the blanket shared with the homeless.
Home is when your husband watches yet another “Ghost Hunters” show without complaining.
Home is in the wagging tail of a dog happy to see us.
Home is in the eyes of a fireman as he walks up the stairs of the Twin Towers.
Home is when the puzzle pieces of the heart come together, and we know we have found our cradle.
Because when love is in the house, we are all home.