I’ve called how many places home?  Thirty?
I’ve helped how many people find a home? Ten thousand?

I’m in my third home alone.  The first I don’t count, it was more of a hotel room than a home, although I felt more home there than anywhere previous.

My bungalow looked right.  Small enough, big enough, right enough.  But it wasn’t right.

All the other places we did together never felt right either… they did for a moment or a month, one more than a few years, but in the end this churning in me continued, this sense of moving on, keep going, don’t slow down.  A sense something was catching up to me and I better run faster to stay ahead of it. I never once felt nestled or held in a space, I never once felt truly at home.  I didn’t even know that feeling was possible, that feeling of familiarity and cherishment, where the world and your trouble gets set aside.

Now somethings happened.  I noticed it in the bathroom first, in the shower.  It’s a great shower.  It’s my shower.  I have never stood in a shower and felt it be mine.  I stayed in it a while, the intensity of the feelings and the water from 3 jets felt similar.  This is mine, there is nowhere to go.  I am home.

I look around the place and it feels so familiar to me.  I’ve only slept here a handful of nights yet– but their is an intimacy to it, a certainty.

I’ve always been obsessed with physical space, of creating it, making it more beautiful, making it work.  But not for me. It was always just a process, something to do, a means to an end.

This space feels nothing like that.

Have I helped thousands of people find what I’m feeling?  I think so.  I had no idea.

What does home mean to you?

 

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