"The Journey Continues..."

Was listening to my Pandora station, as is my wont when I happen to be takeing care of mindless  tasks at work. This particular station has the likes of Lorenna McKennit, Jeremy Soule and many many gaming and movie soundtracks, but the song got me, was by Enya.

"Long, long journey" to be precise, and other than a nice drum throughout, it didn't really catch my attention...til the last paragraph.

"Long long journey, out of nowhere, 

long, long way to go...

but what are sighs, and what is sadness, 

to the heart that's coming home?"

"To the heart that's coming home"...it hit me. I have had different houses in my life, all of strong construction, all places that gave me shelter and a place to retire at the end of the day's tasks and or adventures...but the only thing that those houses have ever had in common was my bed.

 I think of my bed as home. It has seen two changes of location in my years thus far, and I have known many, many twin sizes, from my first stepmom's houses, to the three wonderful years at college, to my current step-mother's full-size... back to my own big, welcoming bed.

  But it brings me to ask...What is a home? I can't just plant my bed out in a field and sleep with a tarp over me...though it is tempting sometimes.

Is "Home" a tiny place chock full of people and noise and bickering and laughter? Is it cold and big and full of quiet souls and books and thoughts?

Do we strive to create a place that we think is home, while trying to blend this idea, this concept of "home", from another person's mind? Is this why men build houses and women decorate them?

I don't know what Home is, or what is should look like. I live in a big house with three other strong personalities that make it seem full, but only of heavy emotion and not of feeling. I have been in tiny houses full of people in every corner where the only place to find my own thoughts is in the garage or the bathroom, if a cat or kid didn't follow me in before I got the door shut. I have lived in single stories and three stories, log house and new construction...and I am still searching for that place that is *my* home. 

All of these are waystations, places that others have constructed to fit their ideals, not mine, places that I have lived in, with and around, searching and wandering around ridges and deer trails, always keeping the house in sight, for fear of losing my way...but wanting to find something lost.

I long to find that one place that makes me excited to come home. I want to find that moment of peace, of utter belonging, because it is where my heart is, not just a place where I must go to find love and acceptance or affirmation...but the place where my soul affirms *itself*, without hidden subterfuge or insidious emotional pullings.

I come out of my life, hearkening back to my pilgrim soul, and I imagine...

...imagine the hope and anticipation of a Pilgrim finding at last, the home place. Even if it wasn't the place of birth...finding that one space in the world, where your spirit is its own lodestone, finding the center of your circle, your life the diameter, as long as the half of your pathways, can lead you to that one moment of belonging.

I think all travelers seek this...some never realize when they find it...but some do...imagine the joy when they realize they have come to their home...imagine the joy....

"To a soul that's coming home."