Finding My Home

Posted on December 15, 2013


Since my separation several years ago and subsequent divorce, I’ve often felt quite homeless, a stranger in a strange land. My roots were cut off. What mattered to me was ripped away.

As I sat and drank that beer alone in Georgetown, Cayman Islands, I realized that:
Home is not where your stuff is.
Home is where your heart is.

My home is home to me when my kids walk through the door. But when they are gone (half of the time) I could leave it all behind without looking back. I live for family and because they were there all of the time, I had a home all of the time. There are other things that connect to my heart deeply and give me a sense of home. These are the things I need to nurture . . . if I am to find my home again:
People like those I met on my trip,
Real people with real stories,
Good meaningful conversation about things that matter,
The warm smile of a stranger,
The ocean wind,
And music brings me home.

I guess for me, there is a bit more to it than Pumba’s philosophy in Lion King:
“Home is where your rump rests” . . . although I do long for it to be that simple.

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