I left my job and went home to New York.
I stayed there two weeks without a man, without a care, without a worry in the world.
I’m at this exciting…thrilling…unrelenting place in my life where things are changing.
My heart is changing.
My dreams are changing.
Everything, everything is changing.
You ever feel like that?
Home is good for when life changes—wherever home is and however it looked or looks now.
Home reminds you of who you’ve been; it celebrates how far you’ve come.
Home is the root, it’s the depth of you—the place that made you, sprung you low into piles of dirt, only to plant you and grow you into the tall, flowering heart and soul that you are now.
Home is the catching up with old friends. It’s the sitting around familiar tables. It’s the crossing over of acquainted bridges; the driving through memorized streets, those pathways forever etched in the recollections of your mind.
Home is nestling into Mom’s chest, even at the age of twenty-nine.
It’s walking that hidden pathway to your favorite Main Street; it’s nostalgic memories late into the night with your brother who remembers the road trips more than you do.
Home is knowing where the pots and pans are. It’s grandma’s living room stacked with moving boxes; stacked with flashbacks of Christmas trees covered with homemade ornaments and silver tinsel.
Home is the hurt and the mess and the rage and the pain.
But, so much more, it’s the healing and the mending and the memories and the hope.
Home is good for leaving; sometimes it’s good for staying.
But it’s always good for visiting.