Home. It’s every bit a verb as much as a noun. Not just the place one resides, home is where the heart is they say. Where the heart beats and lungs breathe and mind wanders… A place of action. A place of movement and exertion and habit and ritual.
This moving thing, it’s a pain for sure–metaphorically and literally. But yet I find it is an opportunity to see with beginner’s mind all that my daily life has become. Morning rituals are mostly the same from place to place; each morning I still struggle to leave my nest of a bed while the promise of a hot pot of coffee beckons from the kitchen. But in a new context I see with new eyes.
Like a Boggle board turned 90 degrees I can suddenly see new parts of myself that had yesterday been plainly hiding within clear view. The woman in me with tenacity and grit shows up to change her own tire–for the first time ever. The woman in me who loves to learn volunteers to feed the chickens (the wrong kind of food at first, but she’s… learning). The woman in me with courage and a brave heart shows up at neighborhood gatherings to make friends of strangers and leaves feeling filled to the brim.
Home is a funny place when I think of it, really. It can define us without our proper consent. A home of origin is often simply a shortcut for identifying who we are–or more accurately, who we have been. This process of (re)discovering myself in this new place and time has been the ultimate homecoming. Coming home to myself. The chance to define, on my own terms, who I want to be–or more accurately, who I am becoming.
Home now is where my heart is finding its rhythm. New home, new beat. Me. Renewed.