Home is not a place. It is a state of mind.
It was just three weeks ago, that, driving to work, I had the sudden overwhelming sensation that I was home. I was a little shocked to find that this was the word quietly enveloping my experience. And then I was curious. What was it, exactly, that I was feeling?
My heart was full, swelling with love for the intricacies of my life here. A fondness for the particular crack in the sidewalk on a particular street corner. For the faces that shone through my daily life. For the clear horizon, and the view out my kitchen window, which is different each day according to season, time, and weather. I was feeling a profound fondness for the world that I touched up against each day.
But that is the result of something else. I was experiencing gratitude for having allowed myself to touch up against it. Even deeper- having relaxed enough in my being to be capable of extending that touch.
And that's what I was holding: an ease. I had, by letting go of so much resistance, quite sunk into my existence. I saw how naturally I could relate with the people and places I was surrounded by. I had been cultivating this without knowing what it would lead to. But by accepting things as they are, and relaxing into each experience, I had made my way to a space in which I was entirely at ease. And this, I realized, is home. It's not that I'm particularly attached to the house I'm living in, or the city. It's just that there's nothing to fight. I'm here, luxuriating in being- the good, the bad, and the ugly.
This quite fascinates me. I have moved and traveled so very much, always seeking and searching for a place I could call home. And so everywhere I was, I was there only half-heartedly: thinking soon I'd leave and find where I really wanted to be.
And then I stopped. Decided to put both feet on the ground. I practiced staying (it was difficult). But I stayed. And somehow relaxed into the staying. And now I feel what I had been searching for.
Home is wherever you relax into being.