(this was really Monday's post but the site was down when I was ready to post)
Home. A place where you feel safe. Respected. Loved (no matter what). You don't need make-up. Imperfections are embraced. There is no judgment (and when there is, you talk about it as much as you can). The truth is spoken, even when it is hard. You are invited to be your best self. Forgiven for the moments when you are not. No score is kept. There may be laughter, tears, joy, and grief. And someone to hold your hand through all of them.
Home is that deep satisfied sigh a dog makes as it rests its head on your knee.
Home should be more simple and less drama.
Home is doing the best you can and being loved for it.
I don't think the words above are the myth of home. I think they are the truth of home. The home we hope for, strive for, try to create.
I have often wished for a place that felt like home and included my parents. Read: the image of "home for the holidays." This has become more apparent to me because of the distance that now separates us. We used to only be an hour away from each other. The distance now gives me the opportunity to "go home" but it doesn't feel like that is what I will be doing Thursday.
So what is that place? This place I will be going for the weekend. My hometown? The place where my parents live? An opportunity to let go of the desire for the "home for the holidays" myth? Is home a state of being or a place? Something different for each of us? A myth? A truth?
I give myself permission to uncover my own truth. No judgment. And guilt, you are not invited.