Where is home and how do you know when you are there? Traditionally I would think that home is the place where I grew up. That would be Clarkson Street in Thunder Bay, Ontario. But I can't go back there, the people who live there would have me committed when I knocked on the door with my suitcase in hand. Was it my parent's home? Well neither one of them grew up on Clarkson Street. So maybe my home is where they grew up in Italy. His house? Her house? I don't know where to go?
Maybe home is just the place where you find love? Well, in that case, the place where I live is not home. There was love once - between a mother and her children. But the children are gone and the mother is just a figure head today. That love must be flexible and transient to continue.
I used to think that there was a difference between a house and a home. A house was a building containing a collection of objects designed to be eye-appealing, a show piece ready for the magazine photographer to come in and capture the beauty. A home was a building that when you entered it you could almost feel the life emitting from the walls. You could sense the personality of the occupants and the love they felt. But when they go...it isn't home anymore.
So where is my home and how do I get there? I want to go to the place where they know and love me, where I am accepted and wanted. I have driven thousands of miles and lived in many different places and I still don't know where I belong. So I pack up and get ready for another journey...but I don't know which direction to go so I sit and spin my wheels and get nowhere.
Wouldn't it be wonderful if we could click our heels and be magically transported home? No questions asked or answered, just that spectacular warm fuzzy feeling that lets you know in your heart that you are where you belong with people who can't live without you nor you them.
If there was a bridge to heaven....that is the road I would travel.
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