we often ask each other where home is:
our place of refuge, what feels like confident strides,
like well-loved blankets, like familiarity.
i never quite know what to say.
home is not a location; i am always in motion –
there are too many nooks and crannies in this deep, wide earth to explore –
i could never choose just one place to settle.
it is not another person;
the idea of someone else’s heart being your home might be romantic,
but it’s naive.
you cannot build your home in something outside of yourself,
in something that you are not responsible for,
in something that can leave abruptly or evict you or imprision you.
it is also not a state of being or emotion –
fleeting and circumstantial and impermanent,
too wildly unstable to house something so precious.
maybe it’s as simple as this:
it can be found in your very own chest.
maybe it’s as simple as: my home is my own body,
holding my being, brought to life by His spirit.
it cannot be outside of myself –
as if i don’t belong in my own body,
as if the house i was born into isn’t enough.
and it is okay to feel at home when i am
shoulder to shoulder, knee to knee with those i love,
but planting myself behind someone else’s ribcage
is like cutting me from my life source,
my own sense of self –
as if my own body is not worthy to house my soul
when it is the very vesel designed to do so.
i am learning to love myself;
this is good –
this is hard.
this is good.