Coming Home. There is nothing quite like the feeling.
It is exciting to go, but even better to come home. The relief you feel on pulling up in the driveway, unlocking the door, crossing the threshold into your house, your space. The familiar smells, the familiar furniture, the familiar mementos of a life, your life greeting you, welcoming you, beckoning you to lay down your traveling pack and rest your weary bones.
I’ve had many homes in my life. The home I grew up in, “Andries.” My college home, Hollins. My apartment in Jackson, Mississippi. The first home of my married life in Hattiesburg, Mississippi. My third-floor flat in Heidelberg, Germany. My sprawling ranch in DeRidder, Louisiana. And now my two-story in the suburbs of Huntsville, Alabama.
It isn’t the location, because I’ve liked some better than others. It isn’t the size or the look of the residence, because some have been larger or nicer or simply more my style. It isn’t the ownership of a place, I’ve lived in several houses that didn’t belong to me. It is simply a feeling recalled by the senses, intimately known by the body. No matter where I’ve been in the world, coming home to the sanctuary I’ve carved out as my own is the same: a sense of relief, a sense of comfort, a sense of welcome.
Today I am home amongst my “things,” and for that I am thankful.